Zero Game
by Nihilistic Fatality
Summary: AU. The assassination of JFK left a lasting scar upon the United States. But what went on behind the scenes proves once more that fact is stranger than fiction. Snake/Ocelot, Null/Sniper Wolf.
1. Cat Latin

**Chapter 1 – Cat Latin**

"Sir, we've got something."

Contradicting her eager tone, the woman frowned, hunched forward. Her pencil was frozen above the paper, poised but trembling softly. Shadows appeared on her brow, tracing the furrowed skin. The red light waned, flickering on the brink of death before it returned with vigor. The noise of her commanding officer's steps were lost as she dropped the pencil to press the headset more firmly against her ears. Gold buttons caught stray light as the colonel came to a stop beside her. He rested his hand on the table, leaning over in hopes of catching any stray sound.

"It's recording," she informed, voice hushed. He nodded, eyes planted firmly on the mercurial red light. The room was Spartan, adorned only with its skeleton crew for the early morning shift. Stabbing at the 'stop' button with her finger, she removed her headset. A muted released breath rushed from her lungs as she delicately placed the headset on the worn oak tabletop. Dark stains showed where the varnish had been rubbed away. They watched the red light die in silence.

"Chatter?" the man asked after a thick pause. She shook her head; dark hair fell into her eyes. There was a spark of anxiety in her expression when she finally looked up. Painted red lips were drawn in a thin line.

"Only one of them spoke, sir, but there were two on the line."

"Positive?" He pressed. They weren't allowed doubt, both of them knew that. It was their sin. She nodded firmly. "Then get it sent to translation now. Tell them it gets top priority."

The woman watched the floor as his shadow stretched and engulfed the remaining light. There was a moment of hesitation on her part, as her finger toyed with her skirt, before she turned in her chair and lifted her chin to watch him leave. All timorous signs left her when she spoke, "It wasn't our mark."

He paused in the doorway, a sharp silhouette against the broken light. The featureless shadow considered her a moment, then strode off with only the sharp heel-toe of his walk sounding in reply.

"Translation," echoed from the halls. It faded to nothing and settled heavily in the room around her. Another sigh emerged as she slumped in her seat, nails picking at the chair's arm.

"Yes, colonel."

* * *

The morning was a picture of desolation. Dusty light was smudged along the horizon, blurred around buildings and lost betwixt shadows. Stubborn leaves clung to treetop skeletons, rotting on the bone.

The roads were sparely occupied by early risers in search of worms, and night owls in search of sanctuary from the sun. Adam found himself traveling ill maintained roads. His car rattled with age as it cruised along, the trees bordering on either side growing more abundant.

Langley was still fresh in his rearview mirror when Adam spotted a splash of sharp blue amidst the forest. Lee was seated on the hood of her car, watching impassively as Adam pulled down the gravel drive.

"I've been waiting," she informed swiftly. The gravel crunched under her feet as she pushed off her hood.

Adam plucked red leather gloves from his pocket and tugged them on. Lee raised a brow, an amused lilt curving one corner of her mouth. "Cold?" she asked flatly.

"I'll manage."

Nodding, Lee turned to face the drop point. It had been private property once, sold to the railroads then abandoned and left to rot. There were visible scars from tracks long since removed. A bridge still remained, towering over the dry stream bed, guiding vestigial rails over a river of dust.

Lee drew her sidearm, not sparing the younger agent a glance as she approached the structure. Frowning, Adam followed at a distance. Her figure disappeared under the structure. Adam gave it a dubious look, reaching out to pluck away some of the moss blanketing the wood. Blackened wood fell away like dust and was carried off by the breeze.

"Adam." The curt command was unmistakable. _Heel_. Brushing his gloves off, Adam turned to obey. Lee's gun was safely holstered, indicating that whatever had annoyed her wasn't an imminent threat. However, upon spotting the cause of her agitation, Adam swore.

Crumpled at her feet, lay their target, Avdyl Sedeljšak. Gritting his teeth, Adam knelt at the corpse's side. A cursory glance couldn't determine where the bullet had entered, or even if it was a bullet. All he could determine beyond a shadow of a doubt was Sedeljšak's black wool jacket was soaked through with blood, and he wasn't breathing.

Removing one glove, Adam searched out a pulse. The moribund appearance crushed no expectations. He was dead, but faintly warm. Adam informed his colleague of such as he tugged his glove back on. Without a word, Lee moved to begin inspecting the ground around them.

"Whoever killed him is close by."

He snorted, ruffling through the pockets of the dead man's jacket. "How do you know?"

There was loose change and keys, but nothing overly suspicious. There was a metallic clink as a spent bullet casing was dropped on the pilfered objects in Adam's hand. He frowned.

"Nine millimeter. Whoever got him had to be close."

"You think he's still here?"

Lee quirked a predatory grin in response, nodding once. Pressing the casing back into Lee's hand, Adam slid the keys into his jacket. The change was dropped to the dirt. Kicking the dead man's leg once, Adam moved to follow Lee's shadow.

Not far out from under the bridge, Lee threw an arm out to stop him. Before Adam could question her, a burst of sound erupted from under the rotted structure. Both turned to see the figure of a man sprinting away, staggering in his frenzy to escape. A grin formed on Adam's lips as he bolted after the man. He loved the chase. Heavy footfalls fell in time with the heartbeat thick in his ears. The distance shrank, though Adam paid no heed to the blur of their surroundings or the distance covered, only the sharper lines of his prey. Wheezing breath rang in the air, contrasting Adam's rhythmic panting. Victory met pride in equal parts as it flooded his chest. Adam leaped forward, tackling the man to the ground.

They skid on the gravel, toppling over one another before they stilled. For a brief moment, Adam thought the man had been knocked unconscious. Just as he began to tug his leg free from the weight that pinned it, his head was thrown back. The shock stalled the pain that would manifest later. Dazed, Adam struck out blindly. Glanced blows and square hits coupled with torn clothing and grappling. Adam found himself outclassed when he grabbed his opponent's arm and attempted to twist it behind the man's back. His hold slipped, leaving Adam in the precarious position of an elbow colliding with his eye. Lights flashed before his eyes, swallowed swiftly by darkness. Aside from feeling himself move, Adam didn't register much.

The overlapping sounds of a scuffle chorused in the background.

Despite the sharp waves of pain emanating from the back of his skull, Adam cracked his eyes open and squinted against the sky. The sun had risen further in the sky, glowing far too brightly with spite. His eyes burned. Chaos died off, leaving a silence that settled itself comfortably where it didn't belong. He propped himself up on an arm and looked around. Focus slowly returned to his vision as the pain ebbed away, but didn't disappear fully. Lee was giving him a bland look from where she stood. One foot was firmly planted between her captive's shoulders, his face pressed into the gravel. Hands were cuffed behind his back, a low rumble of a language Adam didn't recognize filtered through the air. It sounded more like growling, but he couldn't quite concentrate enough to identify any of the words. Russian, he suspected out of habit.

"Adam?"

Ignoring Lee, Adam rolled to his feet. His vision spun, but a few deep breaths helped his regain equilibrium. An irrational flash of anger shot through him. That had been his fight; he hadn't needed or wanted help. Adam stilled his tongue, making no effort to mask his discontent.

"I'm taking him in," informed Lee. Not willing to argue, Adam nodded. Lee grabbed her prisoner's arm, hauling the man to his shaky feet. Dragging the still shouting man toward the car, Lee didn't let him regain balance for more than a second before throwing him off kilter again. A cruel puppeteer.

Silently, Adam watched her load the man into the car, then get in herself. The hum of the engine droned on, dying with image of the blue car being swallowed by distance.

His brows furrowed, anger quickly changed to curiosity as he stalked back to the corpse. Dropping to one knee, Adam carefully lifted the leg he'd kicked earlier. A crinkled scrap of paper lay on the ground, dirt sprinkled across the surface. A quarter lay on the edge of it. He didn't know quite what to make of it. Frowning, Adam picked the scrap up. The dirt fell away like faded memories, leaving behind a dirtied mark.

It wasn't complete, the writing unfamiliar. A third of an unfamiliar crest rested by charred edges. Smoothing the paper carefully, Adam carried it back to his car. It was promptly shoved into the glove box before Adam radioed for a clean up crew.

* * *

There were few things cooler in a ten-year-old boy's mind than having a spy for a father. Maybe a superhero or a ninja could come close. Unfortunately for David, he knew his father was none of those. He remembered being younger and seeing his father go off to work, waving goodbye with his mother, imagining that the man was saving the world.

Of course, that was back when he was just a baby, and not more adult like he was now. Now he certainly knew better. Despite the mystery and allure of the CIA, David knew it to be a very boring place.

"Dad, can I go spar with Uncle Roy?" It was still early, only ten yet, but it was the fourth time the question had been posed. Jack looked up from his paperwork, the handwriting almost illegible.

"No," he stated firmly. With a sigh, Jack gave his desk a short-lived glare, and attempted to rearrange some of the stacks of paper. David already knew it wouldn't end well. The child gathered up the paper he'd been drawing on and moved off his father's desk. The floor was good enough to draw on; he didn't need a stupid desk anyway.

Jack spared the boy a glance, before returning to his task.

David paused, looking up to ask his father if Frank could teach him to fight, when he spotted Adam stalking toward his desk, which sat beside Jack's, only an aisle separating them. Blinking at the other's state, David poorly stifled his laughter.

"Dad?" Jack grunted. "Dad," David persisted. When Jack finally turned to look, David merely pointed at Adam.

"What happened?"

There was an angry muttering of words, as Adam sat down. David giggled again, earning a glare from both older men. He quieted, but still looked entirely too amused. A dark ring circled Adam's right eye, merging with a bruise that darkened the bridge of his nose. His bottom lip appeared to be split badly as well.

Jack made a quiet "hm" as he rose from his seat. Adam didn't bat away Jack's hands as the man inspected his wounds. One raised brow reaffirmed the earlier question of "what happened?"

"Stakeout. Sedeljšak."

"By yourself?" asked Jack incredulously. The mole had hardly been a dangerous man, but they never sent people in alone. Not unless they hoped they'd return in a body bag. He grit his teeth, frowning at the thought. Adam merely rolled his eyes.

"Camp was there." David watched curiously as his father's shoulders sagged a little. Scoffing, Adam pushed himself up from his chair and headed to Jack's desk. The only time Jack's workspace was manageable was when Adam organized it for him. Still, something bothered David about the scene. Jealousy gnawed at the edge of his conscience when he saw his father smile at Adam's back.

"Who's Camp?"

"Lee," Adam snapped. David scrunched up his nose, still confused who they were discussing.

"How'd you get beat up if there was someone else there?"

There was no response from the subject of his teasing, so David dropped the matter, returning to his drawings. Adam scowled at the papers in his hand, shuffling them around until they were in the right order before separating them into stacks. He was fairly certain that Jack finding anything on his desk was nothing short of an act of God. The sorting slowed, knowing as soon as order was restored Jack would ask again. Details, Adam supposed grudgingly, should be shared.

Slowing did not stall the inevitable for long, however, and Adam stood unmoving as he stared down at Jack's desk. His back was stiff, eyes boring holes into the wood. There was no silence to be had in the crowded building, but the stretch where neither spoke was more painful with the hum of living behind them. "You're not going to ask about why we were waiting for Sedeljšak?"

With a shrug, Jack blandly informed, "If I thought I could pronounce his name, I would have."

A chuckle was pulled from Adam despite himself, stilted and not quite believable. He turned to face Jack, trying to gauge how serious the man was about that claim. Jack stared back coolly, one brow cocked.

"We caught someone poking around on Russian frequencies."

Jack frowned. "When?"

Adam shrugged, hackles rising as memories of defeat rushed through his mind. His wounded eye throbbed as the anger resurfaced. "Ask Zero," he offered at last. A grin broke out on Jack's features. The man nodded before walking off to do as suggested.

Snorting, Adam returned to his own chair. David moved to sit in his father's chair, glaring across the aisle at Adam. The hard stare pricked at his nerves, fraying what patience remained. Swiveling on his chair, Adam turned to meet the child's gaze.

"What?"

David tilted his head to the side. "You lived in Russia once, right?"

"No," Adam growled out. Derailing the train of discussion would be best, but David took after his father in the worst ways.

The child grinned. "Dad said you were in Russia."

"John lied."

"My dad doesn't lie!" David defended staunchly. It simply wasn't a possibility the child was willing to accept. Somewhere in his mind, Adam didn't want to accept it either. But he frowned, regardless, determined to argue simply because there was another side. It was foolish to squabble with a child, but Adam wasn't above lashing out verbally in his already foul mood.

"There's no Santa Claus," said Adam. One could see the gears turning in the child's head, eyes flashing in anger before his brow furrowed. The anger grew tangible in the air.

"There is so!"

"He was shot down last year. He's dead." The level tone made David pause. It couldn't be the truth though, Adam said it. Something like that would be on the news.

"Well…how do you know? You're a Ruskie!"

The insult was more caustic than the child knew, hitting misplaced pride. Adam bristled. "I'm--"

"Adam." A firm hand rested on his shoulder, keeping him from rising to smack the brat around. Something cold was pressed against his injured eye, startling Adam from his anger. "Hold this." Grumbling unhappily, Adam held the ice pack firmly. Orders complied with, Jack moved into Adam's line of vision.

Something wasn't right about the set of his jaw. Unease quickly replaced Adam's irritation as he sat up a bit straighter.

Jack leveled his gaze, eyes sharp as he spoke. "It's not Russian."

"What's not--"

He shook his head, cutting off Adam's question. "We don't know what the transmission is yet."

"Damn it," Adam swore sharply, striking the surface of his desk with an open palm. Any ground he thought they'd gained had been snatched away. He hunched over the desk, hand braced against his forehead.

"Did Campbell get that guy to talk?"

Bemusement colored Jack's expression, curiosity bright in his eyes. "What man?"

Hopping to his feet, David took advantage of the pause to go to his father's side. The child tugged insistently on his sleeve. He whined, "Daaad," softly. Still focused on Adam, Jack held up a hand, signaling for the boy to be quiet.

"The one we apprehended this morning. He was near Sedeljšak's body when we found him."

"Did you bring him in?" Jack queried over the continued low plea for attention that his son gave. Adam answered that he had not, his visage growing more troubled by the moment. He dropped the icepack to the desk.

"Lee took him. She left before I did."

"Daaad."

Jack rounded on his son, giving the child a stern look. "Stop it, David." The boy stilled, glowering in embarrassment. Soundly chastised, he released his hold on Jack's sleeve. Appeased, Jack turned back to Adam.

"She never came in," he informed. Urgency began to tinge the edges of Jack's voice. "How much sooner did she leave?"

There was a pause. "Ten minutes."

"Damn it."

There was no response from Adam before he jumped up from his seat and jogged off in the direction of Roy Campbell's office. Snatching up David's hand, Jack tugged his son in the opposite direction. The sea of desks passed slowly, consistent as the tides. David looked up at his father sheepishly every few steps.

With a sigh, Jack finally asked, "Yes, David?"

"Santa wasn't shot down right?" the boy asked, once satisfied that his father no longer sounded impatient. The question made Jack miss a beat, unsure how the question had come up.

"No." The answer sounded hesitant, but David decided to take it at face value.

"Good. Not that I care about stupid baby stuff like that, but…Hal would be sad." David nodded. Hal would be sad if David had to tell him Santa Claus was dead, thankfully he didn't have to. Jack made a noise of comprehension, releasing his son's hand to open the door to the security room.

"Hey, Jack!" The chipper demeanor of Johnny Sasaki soured upon seeing Jack's face. "Babysitting?" he asked immediately. David didn't need to see his father nod to know that he did. Slightly irritated that he couldn't go, David crossed his arms as he stomped over to take a seat by the security guard.

"Ah, buck up, Davy, we can play spy!" David tried to fight the smile that overtook his features, but it appeared futile. Even if he was being passed off, he liked the security control room. Johnny - the older man said to call him that, even if his father said he should say Mr. Sasaki - was fun. For an old man, anyway.

Adam was waiting by the door to the car port when Jack arrived.

"Campbell couldn't catch her on radio. Local police are on lookout, Frank's helping look. We'll split up." The younger man turned to leave, pausing when Jack grabbed his shoulder.

"Keep your channel open," Jack ordered. Adam nodded, heading toward his own car. Something restless stirred in his gut, slithering over his chest. Once assured that Adam was safely on his way, Jack pulled his own keys from his pocket.

* * *

The plates matched. The blue Ford sat contently near the curb, suspicious in the normalcy it radiated. He'd almost gone right by, but he turned in time. There was blood on the driver's side window. Closer inspection revealed to Jack that the interior was a scene from a horror film.

The seats were splashed with blood. Hand prints, smears, footprints, a struggle that he saw painted before him with the bumbling care of a toddler. Artistic blurs marred the edges leaving no discernible prints. Outside the car, there was no blood on the sidewalk.

Jack sat in his car, radio loosely held in his hand. The indistinct clamor of children wafted over from the park, the juxtaposition to the macabre scene was jarring. A short lived burst of static erupted from the speakers, lingering. It was followed shortly after by Campbell's voice.

"Snake?"

Brows knitted together. Call signs were never good omens. Baneful as a storm on the horizon, he remained stoic to the implications. Jack pressed the radio button down to respond.

"No sign of Wolf. Found the car. There's…blood on the inside."

"No trail."

"Affirmative." Minutes were stretched beyond use. Jack counted them, quietly in his head, missing the rhythm Adam would have tapped with his fingertips.

"Snake, Fox is on his way."

"And Ocelot?"

"Your tom went struttin'."

"What?"

There was a sigh over the signal. "Cat class involves not answering your radio. We have maintained silence."

Adam was fine, Jack assured himself. The man could charm the devil out of more lives if he ever ran out. The conversation was curt, leaving Jack little to do but wait. He sat stock still in his car, watching the children play. Their shadows stretched toward him, trying in vain to reach him through the glass.

* * *

The back door was never locked. Adam opened said door quietly, wondering idly why Jack never bothered to lock up. The doorway led straight to the kitchen. Dinner appeared half eaten on the dishes, left to cool and rot. The food itself appeared inedible, Jack's cooking proving once more to be as much of an anomaly as the man himself. Adam wrinkled his nose in disdain. How either stomached his cooking was a mystery of modern medicine.

The lock clicked shut, the sound resonating eerily. An unnatural stillness engulfed the Milles' household. The hair on the back of Adam's neck stood on end as he crept forward into the quiet. A low creak pierced the silence, the floorboards protested the weight.

The living room was dipped in a murky blue, lighted only by scattered rays from other rooms. Now familiar figures of piled boxes and stacked books broke the monotony of the Spartan décor. Adam stepped toward the couch, satisfied to continue routine without interference.

Movement allowed itself to be shown a moment too late. Sudden weight threw itself against the back of Adam's knees. The ground rose to greet him, pressing a metal toy car into his ribs. Any air in his lungs abruptly showed its contempt by exiting.

Reactions, practiced until they were as innate as breathing, kicked in. Adam shoved at the ground, twisting so that he lay sprawled on his back. The effort to free his legs from whatever vice they were caught in was aborted the moment Adam caught sight of his captor.

A cardboard box sat innocently on his legs. The warmth permeating his pants indicated that it was anything but angelic.

Propped up on his elbows, Adam sent the box a scalding look. Words that would have matched perched on tip of his tongue, silenced when another of the boxes seemed to spring to life. Quite literally, Adam realized, as it landed squarely on his stomach with a small roar. Air really couldn't stand the company of his lungs, it seemed.

The box shed its skin to reveal the laughing menace known as David. This left the box still holding his legs to be Jack. Adam somehow managed to grab the wriggling child and toss him off his ribs. Though the toss was feeble, and ended with the child rolling away from Adam. The box suggested David head towards his room. Despite the child's attempt at negotiations, he found himself treading up the stairs moments later.

Adam watched as the box was cast off in favor of shadows. They caressed the other man's face. Smudged along the skin, the darkness was marred only by two glints of blue. His features seemed carefully passive.

"The cat came back."

Displeased, Adam tried once more to pull his legs free. They didn't budge. "Kept my collar on and everything."

"But not your radio."

"The birds pick up on bells," Adam drawled. Jack studied him a moment in the dark before slowly releasing his legs. A lofty grin formed on Adam's lips as he sat up fully. All sharp lines and arrogance. The quiet simmered.

"What the hell was that?" asked Adam, his chin jerked toward the box now crouched in the shadows.

"A box."

The heel of Adam's boot connected with Jack's shin. "Who hides in a box?"

Jack shrugged. "You didn't look there. It's nice."

"Not being looked for?"

"The box," Jack insisted. "It's comforting."

"You're insane," the younger man informed.

The glint in Jack's eyes changed, a flicker of light igniting them. A glimmer of a memory caught Adam, blurring reality for a precious moment. His mind captivated by decrepit memories of thunder and lighting, ozone as sharp to his young senses as the electricity. He cowered before the storm, seeking refuge from what he couldn't control in his mother's arms. He never remembered her face, just the feel of her hands running through his hair.

The stubborn set of Adam's shoulders deflated. Acutely aware of his sudden exhaustion, he sighed. Jack, more shadow than man, gave him an odd look, head tilted to study Adam.

The words were soft. "You could get in, then you'd understand."

"I'm not hiding in a box."

"You seemed to enjoy hiding elsewhere today."

"That's different!"

The shadows grew more prominent on one side. Adam suspected a raised brow. "It's not a box," he continued sourly.

"Where were you?"

"You found Lee's car."

Frustration began to lace Jack's tone. "Frank and I looked for four hours."

"I heard they found the man's body."

"Answer the radio."

Adam perked. "I kept it open."

The phantasm rose to his feet with a sigh. Pinpricks of blue shot guilt through Adam's heart, but his lips remained still. The wraith's hand reached out to him, catching light as it did so. Adam reached forward unthinkingly, the hobble on his heart falling away when callused flesh met his own.

"Sleep." The apparition spoke with Jack's voice. Adam grinned against the dark.

"That's not what I came here for."

Adam moved to block the other's path to the stairs, one hand spread upon his chest. Vibrations betrayed laconic laughter, silent as his eyes. The steel drained away from his voice, leaving a kindness that made Adam's skin itch.

"I know." A hand rested atop his own, before both were promptly removed. "Now sleep."

Jack turned, not looking back at Adam as he mounted the stairs. Light slowly burned away the shadows, until few dared to cling to Jack's frame. Then he disappeared and the light clicked off. Adam found his way to the couch, suffering a stubbed toe in the process. He stared at the walls, willing himself to sleep.

Only the feeling of trepidation solidified in the night.

* * *

"Are you leaving?"

Sunlight hadn't yet spotted the living room. The rising cacophony of twittering birds had begun, however, announcing the dawn's approach. Dave watched Adam pull on his shoes from the safe perch of the stairs. The child pressed his face between the rails, immune to the venomous look Adam shot him.

"Not in the way you'd like," he muttered. It was more to himself, but the kid had asked.

There had never been peace betwixt them, but this level of malice was abnormal. David frowned, unsure what to make of Adam's agitation. "What's that mean?"

"Shouldn't you be asleep?"

David shook his head. Even from the stairs, he could hear Adam curse.

"What do you want?"

"Are you sick?"

Caught off guard, Adam turned, countenance reading bemusement. "What?"

The boy tapped his head twice. "Up here. Are you crazy?"

"Why?"

Shifting nervously, David looked away. "Uncle Roy said you had a crush on my dad."

The words impacted with violence, Adam paused, shoelaces in hand. Breathing seemed too daring a task at the moment. The petrification of his muscles abated long enough for Adam to finish tying his shoes, the motion mechanical and clumsy. Then he sat, slumped, on the couch. David watched the lines across the other's back shift from the corner of his eye. Adam's hands, hidden from the child's view, trembled.

"I don't," he sneered at the floor. David nodded, fidgeting where he sat.

"I went to church with mom once, and the preacher was told us how boys were only supposed to kiss girls." Adam made a soft noise, to show he was listening if nothing else. David took it as affirmation. "Kissing's gross though. I wouldn't want to kiss a girl."

"Go get some breakfast."

The words sounded off key to David. He couldn't place what was wrong with them exactly, but Adam sounded tired. Quietly, he agreed, sneaking down the stairs. The child was behind the couch when a thought struck him. Too young for real restraint yet, David followed it. Leaping over the back of the couch, he jumped onto Adam, arms wrapping around the other's neck.

"To the kitchen!" he declared, unhooking one arm long enough to point in the direction of the kitchen. It was alarming when Adam complied. Once through the doorway, Adam removed the arms from his neck. The boy landed on his feet with a thump behind Adam.

"Eat," the man ordered, making a beeline for the door. The soft rustle of cereal and clatter of plate ware was enough of an answer.

"Bye."

Frozen, Adam's brow furrowed. The farewell was unusual by itself, but coupled with the gentle tone, it was downright puzzling. "Choke on your cereal, brat."

The door clicked shut behind him. David smiled.

* * *

Disarray was the nicest way to describe the chaos. Papers were scattered along filing cabinets, carpeting the floor. Drawers were stacked haphazardly, some toppled over. Dents were battle scars of broken locks and secrets told. The walls remained in pristine condition, and the floors stable, but they were all that testified that a siege had not been. Another burst of fury gave papers flight, performing short lived acrobatics before returning to the floor. Not satisfied, Adam kicked another stack.

"It's not here," he muttered. The low hum of anger buzzed through his mind. The calm drowned in the storm. A swear was punctuated by the sharp din of metal buckling under his fist.

He made a hasty retreat. Dodging the unblinking stares of cameras, Adam walked swiftly from the archives. The lobby was crowded enough that a man in a hurry didn't stand out. A halcyon chuckle escaped his lips when the CIA's crest fell beneath his harried steps. Integrity. Ironic.

The calls were made from the same place every time. It was a homely deli, only a few blocks from headquarters, and swathed in baseball memorabilia in the front. The back held echoes of Marx. The man at the counter nodded as Adam walked right by. Bypassing pleasantries, Adam headed straight for the phone. The number was dialed without thinking, despite its length. It was picked up immediately.

In crisp Russian, Adam informed, "They're onto us."


	2. Cassandra's Prophecy

**Chapter 2 – Cassandra's Prophecy**

It was 8 a.m. sharp when Roy Campbell strolled through the door of his office. The light gleaming from behind drawn shades made his eyes throb. Jack sat up in his chair, the lock falling in place being loud enough to wake him from his slumber. Frank didn't move from where he stood near the window, profile blurred against the striped light.

"Didn't mean to keep you waiting," Roy informed cheerily. He settled behind his desk, content that his own chair was much more comfortable than the one Jack occupied. It kept those in his office uncomfortable. The advantage was nice.

"Where's Ocelot?" Jack spoke, rattling the dust that collected on their conversation. A soft noise of question escaped Roy's throat as he turned to look at the empty chair. His features didn't give away his irritation, only apathy shining through. He shrugged.

"Don't you know?" Roy shot a questioning glance at Frank, who steadfastly refused to look at him. No help there. "We need to put bells on him," muttered Roy. "That isn't why I called you here this early."

Something that Roy could only assume was "Better not be" rumbled from Jack's direction. The man looked tired, as was his prerogative, given that he'd been called in two hours prior. Adam had been gone by the time he'd made it downstairs.

"We got another transmission last night. This one confirmed Russian."

Jack tilted his head to the side, gears slowly creaking to life. "What was the other one?"

"We're not sure yet." Unlocking the top left drawer, Roy pulled out a manila envelope. Nothing was written on the cover. Frank finally turned to watch Roy with narrowed eyes, half his face still cast in shadow. "This one we managed to translate fully. Cryptologists are working on it, but so far it looks like a normal fairy tale."

"A fairy tale?" Jack echoed. "Are they trying to put us to sleep?"

"Could be." Opening the envelope, Roy dropped a copy of the translated text on his deck. The shadows shifted as Frank moved forward to snap up the copy. Jack caught sight of the title. _Tale of the Golden Cockerel_. Frank's countenance soured as he flipped through the pages. The papers were dropped back on the oak desk.

"They're taunting us." Frank's subdued tone sounded unusually loud. Interest piqued, both of the other men watched Frank pace the length of the office. His steps were measured and even, eyes focused on the floor. "They're calling us children."

Roy leaned back in his chair. "Now why would they do that?"

The pacing stopped abruptly. Then Frank narrowed his eyes, turned on his heel and continued to patrol the office. Rhythmic footfalls counted five either way. "Turnabout."

At that, Jack sat up, interest sparking in his eyes. Looking unperturbed, Roy allowed his gaze to shift from Frank to the man sitting before him. There was the distinct impression that he had missed whatever connection that word had made. So he sighed, waiting. Patience was, after all, a virtue.

"A traitor?" came Jack's response, heavy with doubt.

"The mole. Knowledge of him was top level."

Roy frowned dubiously, rubbing at his chin in thought. "That would explain it. Which means they'd know what frequency we'd gotten the transmission from."

"And how they got Lee."

Vague allusions were beginning to be filled in, the conversation having taken a turn Jack couldn't quite believe. He shook his head adamantly. Blue eyes shadowed with stygian vexation.

"It's not Adam," said Jack stonily. Nostrils flared, he clenched his jaw, teeth threatening to splinter under the force of his choler.

"Who else could it be?" Frank challenged.

Roy sighed quietly. Reluctantly, he seemed to resign himself to agree. "Jack, there aren't many people with that level of clearance."

The response was unyielding. "It's not Adam."

"Then where is he?"

Frank gestured choppily to the empty chair. Jack followed it, eyes tight as his gaze landed where Adam should have been. The kid wasn't doing himself any favors by coming and going as he pleased. However, the trust between them was solid, and not even Frank's hammering was going to fracture it. Not until Jack saw the shattered pieces of it for himself.

"I don't know," Jack stated.

"He could be meeting with them right now."

"He's not." The certainty didn't so much as waver. Their gazes locked, ardent glares spitting forth vehemence like poison. Roy cleared his throat, watching as the intensity of the stare down eased. He was reminded of wolves, hackles raised, as they patrolled where their territories overlapped. The battle was avoided, just postponed by more pressing issues, by loyalty.

"He was raised to be a traitor."

"Adam is not a traitor." The deliberate pronunciation of each word showed the great deal of restraint that Jack had used. Control had been ingrained in him since he was young, considering his father's military background. Jack had enlisted himself at eighteen, recommended to the Special Forces division not too long after. The thought of anything forcing him to become unhinged was an unsettling one.

"It's not unheard of for people to be swayed during undercover assignments," Frank pressed.

"That," Roy said loudly, interrupting whatever retort Jack had planned, "was actually why I wanted him here. He'd be more familiar with the story than we would, if it actually is a fairy tale," he elaborated. It seemed to sooth the stubborn crease between Jack's brows. With an easy grin, Roy handed him the story. "Get back to me."

"That all?"

"Not quite. How do you both feel about a little trip?"

Frank grunted his displeasure. "Do we have a choice?"

"Nope," Roy chirped, light catching his wide smile. "The president's refusing to cancel his trip to Dallas tomorrow. We're tightening security. There's already an embedded agent on standby, but we'd all feel a bit better with you two close to him. Be ready to fly up there tonight from the base."

"Got it. Can I go now?"

Roy nodded. "Dismissed."

Satisfied, Jack mirrored the action, rising from his seat. His eyes caught Frank's defiantly, anger simmering below the surface. The tension remained, stale in the air, until the Jack closed the door after him.

David was spinning around in his swivel chair when Jack returned. Boneless, the child's chin was propped on his chest, the back of the chair supporting his head. Short legs dangled half heartedly from the seat. It appeared chaos had stayed a distance from his work area, despite David's presence. It was a testament to the early hour. Jack ruffled the boy's hair before hefting him up from the chair. The papers still in Jack's grasp crinkled when he adjusted the boy.

"We're going to the car," Jack informed. He felt David nod against his shoulder.

By the time Jack was actually seated behind the wheel of his car, David had perked considerably. Youth and vigor were on his side. The boy clamored over the seats to claim his rightful spot on the passenger side. Jack huffed in exaggerated aggravation as the small child puffed his chest out. The story was tossed in David's lap as his father attempted to find the correct frequency on the radio.

"What's a ...cockerel?"

Jack didn't look up from his task. "A rooster."

"I'm too old for fairy tales, you know," Dave informed. He tipped his chin up, giving his father a look that was supposed to be dignified. All seriousness was lost on gentle features. A curt grunt sounded from his father, one David identified as questioning. "Yeah, but you're really old. So when you have to stay in bed like grandpa, I can read you stories."

"_When_ I'm stuck in bed?" Jack echoed with muted irritation.

David nodded, smiling cheekily. "You're really old."

Jack cuffed him affectionately upside the head. "Brat."

A loud burst of noise sounded from the speakers. The conversation lay dead on the floor. Jack leaned back in his seat and watched the black box expectantly. David cleared his throat, adopting his father's posture as he seemed to study the story closely. Nothing more seemed forthcoming.

Pressing down the button to speak, Jack brought the mouthpiece a bit closer. Clearly, he said, "How many lives do you have left?"

"I'm wounded. I thought you were keeping track," came the delayed response. Traffic droned on in the background. He was on the move. Maybe Roy had been right about that, the kid needed bells.

"Strike one from the record."

"Campbell won't kill me," Adam retorted unrepentantly. Jack's lips curved into a smile. Watching from the corner of his eye, David frowned thoughtfully. He sniffed, turning the page before he continued reading. The mutter of "I might" grumbled from his father earned a soft laugh.

"There's another transmission. It's a fairytale."

"Maybe it's for Adam. He's a big baby," David chimed from his seat. If Adam heard, he pretended not to.

"A fairytale?" the speakers reflected. Jack nodded, knowing Adam couldn't see. He held out his hand for the papers. A critical eye was given to said hand, before David grudgingly handed over the first page.

"Roy wants to know if you recognize it. _The Golden Cockerel_?"

Before Jack released the speak button, David informed, "A cockerel's a rooster."

"With Tsar Dadon the Glorious?"

Jack skimmed the paper, confirming it when he found the name. "I take it that it's real then. What do you know about it?"

"Tsar Dadon started out a warrior. He invaded his neighbors and took their land until his empire was massive." There was a snort. "Then he grew old, and decided he wanted peace. But the neighbors he'd tormented saw his weakness and he was constantly under attack."

"What does that have to do with a rooster?" queried Jack.

Adam's reply was vexed. "He grew desperate for a moment to relax. Promised a soothsayer anything he wished in exchange for something to keep his people safe. The man gave him a golden rooster." The sharp blast of a horn interrupted to the story. The sound cut for a moment, the reticent radio making Jack anxious. Thankfully, it crackled back to life a minute later, Adam's voice picked up where he had left off. "He was supposed to put the golden rooster up on a high tower. It crowed every time enemies approached.

"The enemies stopped coming. Until one day it called to the east. The tsar sent an army, led by his son to investigate. Three days later the bird crowed again, and again he sent and army, led by his second son. Three days later the bird crowed again. He had no more sons so he went with the third army himself. They found the other two armies decimated. The only person alive was a girl living in a tent on the edge of the battlefield. The Shamakha Queen."

David sat up straight in his seat, staring at the paper in his hands. "That's not the queen's name."

"What?" Jack frowned, turning to face David. The boy looked trouble, lips curled downward. He pointed to the paper, waving it in his father's face.

"It's Dimona," Dave insisted. "If Adam's going to be a baby and read these he should do it right."

Snatching the paper away, Jack studied the neatly typed words carefully. Dimona was indeed written there, plain as day. Distantly aware that Adam was still talking, Jack cut him off. "Wait. Dimona."

"What?"

"The translation says the queen's name is Dimona."

"Dimona?" resonated before quiet engulfed the car. Jack sighed, throwing his head back against the seat. The parking garage was painted across the windshield, gray and shadowed. Five minutes of silence proved too much for the child, as he squirmed in his seat. Jack watched, amused and concerned, from the corner of his eye.

The impending trip decided to occupy Jack's mind then. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Dave, do you want to visit your mom and brothers?"

The child froze immediately, eyes alight with panic. He shook his head forcefully. Jack raised a brow.

"Are you sure?"

David pouted, the sinking feeling in his gut needed confirmation. "Why," he demanded in turn. "Do you have to go off again?"

In response, Jack gave a tight grin. David deflated a bit; shoulders slumped as he tossed the papers to the floor of the car. He grumbled unhappily as he crossed his arms.

"Just for a day or two," said Jack apologetically. Shrugging tersely, David made a dismissive sound. It tugged at Jack's heart, but there was little to be done about it. A mission was a mission, which had to come before his wants. "Would you rather stay with Hal?"

"Could I?" the boy asked carefully.

"I'll see what I can do."

"I could stay home by myself." Scoffing, Jack watched his son pull at his clothing self-consciously. Tentatively, David looked up at Jack, only to turn his gaze outside when he saw he was being watched in return. Children weren't subtle. It was a trait that Jack appreciated. "I could," David maintained.

"In a couple years. Are you sure you don't want to see you brothers?"

David made a face, lip curling upward in disgust. "Mom's house smells funny. And James always tells on me. I don't even hit him that hard."

"You know how your mother feels about fighting."

"That's dumb. James is a bigger baby than Adam. At least Adam will fight me." A bark of laughter sounded from Jack. David's fights with Adam were nothing more than short lived wrestling matches, ending when Adam tired of the game and pinned the boy under the couch cushions. Bothering Adam during westerns ensured the fights were shorter than normal, but appeared to entertain the child the most. Jack was almost positive that Adam enjoyed the tussling as well. "Do you still love mom?"

Caught in the memory, Jack was jerked back to the conversation that he'd rather not be having. David was looking everywhere but at his father, eyes shining with a seriousness that was uncharacteristic of someone so young. Blue eyes were grey in the dark. The words halted in Jack's throat. How was he supposed to answer that? David and James had only been seven when the separation happened, George had just turned six. Unable to speak, Jack merely nodded. Lost in a brown study, David tapped his chin absently.

"How many people can you love?"

A strangled noise crawled forth from Jack's throat, low and stalled. It startled David from his reverie, so he focused once more on his father.

"I...don't know."

The child scowled, discontent twisting his features. "If you loved someone else, you could still love mom, right?"

"...yeah," Jack admitted softly. Pacified, David nodded, grin forming on his lips.

"Adam's not so bad," the boy said, conspiratorially. Jack got the very distinct feeling he'd missed something. He smiled, lost, and agreed.

* * *

The scene was right out of a film noir movie. The low buzz of the lights faded into background noise. The night encroached upon the contours of the parking garage, containing the light to feeble orbs, fighting in vain to brighten the area. Lee ghosted through the dark like a memory, the heels of her boots clicked against the concrete, crisp and distinct as it was amplified. The cars had long fled. The CIA was mostly run by paper-pushers, a good portion of them were burdened with families to spend time with. Only those required stayed after five, making it safe to venture into the belly of the beast.

Anticipation swelled in her chest. If fate was kind, she wouldn't return.

The darkness reached out, pulling her into it. A forearm was pressed firmly against her throat just hard enough to hurt. She acquiesced to the action, stumbling backward blindly. Her captor halted, but Lee kicked off the concrete and propelled them backward until the body holding her hit the wall. Unsteady breath brushed against her ear.

"Stand down," the shade rasped. Lee relaxed, pressing back against the other body. Her hand trailed down his thigh, lingering even as the arm fell away from her throat.

"Subtle as always."

Lee turned slowly, her eyes adjusting to the absence of light. A featureless figure in the dark stared back, the weight of his eyes more tangible than any view of them. With precision born of practice, Lee leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. She bit till she tasted blood and pulled away.

"Well?"

"They're sending me with the president."

Lee's grin was feral. "That worked out better than we thought."

"Hm." Callused hands brushed the bangs from her face, rough against her cheek. "Jack's coming."

"Will that be a problem?"

The answer was absolute. "No."

Painted red lips brushed against Frank's neck. Lipstick smeared on his skin, hidden from sight for the moment. He tipped her chin up with his hand. Lee quirked a brow.

"Problem?"

"You'll be there?" Warm breath caressed her lips. The grin remained firmly in place.

"Naturally."

"It was my understanding the mole was to be left alone."

Lee shrugged easily, the low whisper of fabric sounded with the deft rise and fall of her shoulders. "Prouty interfered. The Pentagon has its own secrets to keep; I'm guessing he threatened them. We're to play by their rules for now." She tugged at his jacket before smoothing the wrinkles with a firm hand. Fascinated, she repeated the action, watching the shifting light on the cloth. Blonde bangs fell over her eye once more and Frank resisted the urge to brush them away. "When do you leave?"

"Eleven."

"There's time," Lee informed plainly.

"We can't risk it. Later." He paused, and then amended, "After."

A soft "of course," floated past his ear. Hollow as a promise. He frowned; thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Lee's eyes widened as she was pulled forward, desperation flavored the kiss. It almost changed Frank's mind.

Then the moment shattered, crushed by the muffled reverberation of something landing upon the concrete.

The pair broke apart, back pressed against back before they could think of the implications. Trust. Danger. Lee's pistol traced the unknown corners of the parking garage, scanning carefully for movement. Frank stood motionless, tense defensive stance garnished with the knife in his hand.

"Cameras?"

She could feel muscles shift as Frank shook his head. "Disabled."

Instinct seemed an apt enough guide as the shot rang out in the dark. The brief flash of the muzzle left the dark blacker than before. Unhindered, Frank rushed in the direction Lee had fired seconds before heavy footfalls sounded. The noise stopped suddenly, and Frank knew their quarry had escaped.

Adrenaline was still pulsing along his veins when a spot of light highlighted his feet. Lee had a flashlight in her hand as she drew nearer, inspecting the ground in dissatisfaction. Distorted red splotches peppered the dirty floor. Deformed footprints were mapped out in blood, indicating that Frank had been on the right trail when he gave blind chase.

"You got him."

In a sour tone, Lee snapped, "I don't miss."

Turning on her heel, Lee followed the blood trail back to its point of origin. There was nothing. The light was directed around the area, catching sight of a grey device not ten feet off. Frank retrieved it, tossing it back and forth in his hands.

"Tape recorder. Small, this is high tech. New." He popped open the cassette tray. Empty. "Problem."

The flashlight turned off, forfeiting the room to the shadows once more. "It's too late for problems."

* * *

"You could help."

Adam didn't so much as raise a brow. He remained leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely over his chest. The blue pinstripe shirt adorning his frame was wrinkled and half unbuttoned. Untucked, the bottom of it fell over his black pants. He'd changed before coming over, an unusual occurrence. Jack shook his head, and returned to cleaning his gun. Blue eyes followed his movement with predatory precision. That wasn't what unsettled Jack. It was the calculating glint that distanced them from emotion.

"Where's the brat?"

"Emmerich's." Years had polished the simple task to something innate; Jack could do it as easily as breathing. Even so, his eyes stayed fixated on the parts in his hand. The rest of the weapon lay carefully balanced on his thigh, spilling over onto the bed's sheets.

"Not Kim's?"

Jack tensed visibly. "No. Not Kim's."

Breaking his tableau, Adam pushed off the door frame and entered the room. Trepidation made him pause before sitting on the end of the bed. "Did...the papers go through yet?"

"You know," Jack grunted. Instead of rising to the bait, Adam nodded.

His tone remained calm, soothing and tinged with pride. "You hate when I say things I shouldn't know."

"No," corrected Jack, snapping the disassembled gun back together. "I hate that cocky grin." His gaze darted upward, and then returned to the almost complete gun. "That one." Adam's rough attempt at an innocent look faltered, falling into the familiar grooves of a razor blade grin. The gun was completed with a click, and Jack twirled it once. The younger man feigned interest in the empty clip still atop the sheets. It was easy enough to do, until the gun's muzzle caught his peripheral vision.

A lopsided grin spread across his amused features when the gun was leveled between his eyes. "You could shoot someone's eye out."

"Good."

On a whim, Adam lifted a hand, and mirrored Jack's actions.

"Going to shoot me with your fingers?"

The younger man laughed. It made him sound even younger than he looked. It was a nice change from the hyper vigilant predator that Jack saw beneath his eyes most of the time, it made him seem human. Adam let his hand drop, using the two fingers that made up his mock barrel to push the gun aimed at his own face away. It fell from Jack's hand and landed softly on the bed.

A moment later, Jack found himself shoved back onto the bed, a firm hand pressing into the middle of his chest. Crouched above him, Adam studied him with narrowed eyes. Slowly, the hand slid upward, pulling Jack's white undershirt up enough to reveal tensed abdominal muscles. The fabric bunched under Adam's palm.

"What _would _you do?" was murmured, but the words didn't quite match how Adam's lips moved. Jack blinked, startled when Adam tapped his collarbone twice.

Dazed, he replied, "What?"

"If I shot you." Adam pressed, morbid curiosity lacing words. "What would you do if I shot you?"

Shock registered on Jack's features for only a second before it melted away. Then he chuckled, loud and unabashedly. His chest jumped underneath Adam's fingertips as indignation colored his visage.

"You don't have what it takes to shoot me," Jack informed, when the chuckling died to only a glimmer in his eyes. The pressure on his collarbone amplified as Adam leaned forward onto his haunches.

"I could."

Pinned, Jack shrugged as best he could. Acrid remarks lodged in Adam's throat, but Jack continued before any retort could be made. "You could, but you won't. I trust you."

A strangled noise emerged from Adam's mouth. His mouth fell open, and for once he didn't know how to lie to make this better. There was no pretty falsehood to capture Jack's attention. He'd never been one for ornate things, but the truth felt crude and cheap in comparison. Lies didn't leave Adam's mouth tasting like ash.

The slight curve of Jack's lips alerted Adam that he'd fallen silent for a moment too long. So Adam grit his teeth, lips curled into a sneer. "You're a bigger fool than I thought."

With a snort, Adam climbed over Jack to stand beside the bed. Jack remained where he was, watching Adam expectantly. Adam wanted to disappoint him, but it was hard to do the opposite of something you were oblivious to.

"Don't you have to pack?"

Reluctantly, Jack pushed himself into a sitting position. Adam turned to the door, feeling braver when he didn't have to see blue eyes watching him in turn. His arms folded in front of him once more.

"Be careful," he ordered. The words sounded like they were dragged from him. There was a rustle of movement from behind him before two arms encircled his sides. Adam hissed at the contact and moved to pull away. Jack merely held tighter, forehead falling to rest against the back of Adam's neck.

"I'll be fine."

The warm breath along his collar made Adam stiffen further. It chilled him to the core.

"Look out for Jaeger."

"Frank?" Jack questioned, suddenly less endeared. He lifted his head, settling his chin on Adam's shoulder. He was almost certain he could hear the younger man grinding his teeth. "I trust him too," Jack assured, hoping to ease frayed nerves. It had quite the opposite effect. Adam uncrossed his arms, his right hand immediately touching his front pocket. Determination faded to simple resignation, and Adam shoved his hands into his pockets.

"By the end of this, you'll be wrong about someone."

"The end of what?"

"When Tsar Dadon falls." Adam could feel Jack frown without looking. There was no explanation to be offered, however, because Adam barely understood what he said. He was only certain that is was true. Jack's grip loosened enough for Adam to turn in it. His hand rested on the back of Jack's neck and tugged the other man into a kiss. It was not the first they'd shared, but it was a rare thing that Adam ever initiated the act. Jack kissed back without hesitation. All Adam could taste was ash, dead on his tongue.

Adam suddenly tore himself from Jack's hold, reeling backward a few more steps than necessary. He shook his head, and cast a glance at Jack, eyes still wide with his arms frozen in the air.

"Be careful," he repeated as he walked out of the room. "And...have a nice trip."

Numbly, Jack nodded at Adam's retreating back. Then a grin sprung to his features. Grinning like the fool he was, Jack moved to get his suitcase from the closet. He hadn't used it since the last trip he'd taken with Kim and the kids. He'd been a little disheartened that James and David hadn't been as taken with the Statue of Liberty as he and George had been.

Even Kim had seemed impatient to leave. Looking back, he knew why it hadn't worked. It had never been a lack of love, but he wasn't what she wanted. Or needed, in the end. The break up had been amiable enough, until it came down to custody. Jack had outright refused to let her have all the boys, not when she was moving an hour away and his job took so much of his time. David and James had more or less settled it amongst themselves, but George wasn't deemed old enough to decide on his own. No court would send such a young boy to live with his working father either, but that hadn't stopped Jack from fighting tooth and nail for the boy. That's what had soured things between them the most.

Dispelling the memories like old cobwebs, Jack tossed the suitcase on his bed. The zipper was halfway open when he caught sight of a streak of blood on his inner arm. Thinking he'd cut himself somehow, Jack licked his thumb and rubbed at the blood. There was no scratch underneath. Puzzled, he looked himself over, unable to find the source of the blood. With a snort, he shrugged off the matter and returned to the arduous task of packing.

* * *

The synagogue's interior was plain, with barren walls and worn floors. Simple wooden pews filled the main sanctuary. Glittering night lights hovered outside the tall windows.

Safe within the deeper recesses of the building, locked within the Beit Midrash, sat Daniel Kaplan, nose in an aged tome. At sixty-two, his kind green eyes strained to view the small print through thin glasses. Gray hair was overtaking what was once a head of brown hair. Wrinkles traced the years around his eyes, hardships firmly carved around his mouth. His nose was bent, broken years ago in a boxing match. Shaking fingers replaced the marker before gently closing the book. Glasses were folded and placed into his shirt pocket. The hours slipped through his fingers now, Daniel mused as he stood. The chair scraped against the floor when he pushed it back, smiling briefly at the window. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, turned off the lights, and locked up the room.

Daniel turned the corner into the main sanctuary, pausing in his ritual march. There, among the sea of empty pews, sat a lone boy. His head was bowed against the pew in front of him. There was a loud bell above the door that chimed loud enough to alert whoever remained of another's presence. Daniel hadn't heard anything, but he knew he wasn't that old yet. Puzzled, he approached the youth. The boy looked up, unsurprised. Daniel nodded a greeting, easing himself beside the other. The bench creaked at the added weight.

"Are you lost?"

"No," the boy replied, quietly. "I have questions."

Daniel's eyebrows inched closer to his hairline. "Oh? Do you have a name as well?"

Critical blue eyes blazed with a fire Daniel could only recall seeing once before. The ghost of his brother flashed before his eyes, yielding to the child's form once more. Machine gun fire, distant as the reality of his memories, bled behind the boy's name. Adam, he informed. Daniel offered his own name in exchange. The elderly man leaned against the pew, elbows placed on the top of the backrest. Green eyes fixated on the ceiling, contemplating.

"Are you looking for God?"

Bewilderment flashed in Adam's eyes. He shook his head. "There is no God."

Daniel nudged Adam's shoulder and spared the young man a grin. "No God? I've spoken to Him. With a little faith, He might speak to you as well."

Adam watched from the corner of his narrowed eyes. He popped his knuckles before answering. "I have no faith left to give. I gave it to someone else; if God wants it he can go fight for it."

Daniel nodded as though he understood and hummed softly. "What answers are you looking for, Adam?"

Adam reached into his pants pocket, holding out a scrap of paper. Gingerly, Daniel took it, pulling his reading glasses from his own breast pocket. Once they were perched on his nose, he made faces at the paper until it focused. Even broken, he'd recognize the seal anywhere. The kindness melted away, leaving nothing in its wake save the viridian hue. Daniel handed the paper back in one swift, stern gesture. Adam didn't take it back.

"I can't help you," Daniel said. There was no indication of regret in his voice.

"What does it say?"

"Pardon, child, I really must be going."

Fussing with his jacket, Daniel stood and turned his back on the younger man. He'd only taken a few steps forward when the familiar noise of a cocking gun drifted by his ear. Adam could see the wiry shoulders under the wool jacket tense. The muzzle of the gun was placed between sharp shoulder blades.

It was with world weary patience that Daniel asked, "You plan to shoot me?"

"What does it say?"

"Who hires a boy so young?" The gun was jabbed further into Daniel's back. "Who do you work for, Adam?"

His only reply was the muzzle being removed, and the butt of the pistol crashed into his head. The world blurred to obscurity.

When Daniel once more opened his eyes, he found himself in a near pitch black room. His arms were bound behind his back, hooked over the backrest of the chair. Rope kept his elbows uncomfortably to one another, putting a large amount of strain onto his shoulders. Numbness had already settled into his hands and forearms.

Dried blood pulled at his hair when Daniel finally lifted his head. The musty scent of rotted wood wafted under his nose, stale and clear enough to taste. He coughed, pulling at already aching shoulders.

"They chose you for your patience, didn't they?" It came out as a wheeze, but it was enough to draw Adam forth from the shadows.

The boy grinned viciously as he sauntered nearer. Adam's blue shirt was wrinkled, spotted with perspiration and blood. A rather large blot of stiff fabric sat on Adam's left side. Daniel stared at it blatantly, wondering somewhere in the back of his mind if Adam had lost a rib.

"Comfortable?"

"Your accommodations are a bit off-putting."

"That can be fixed if you'll just tell me what the paper says."

Another soft hum emitted from Daniel as he looked about the room. "You're KGB."

The other's eyes widened before narrowing to slits. "KGB?" he echoed blankly. To unsettle him that much, Daniel reasoned that he must have hit close to home.

"The ropes, the KGB always starts out the same way. Even after all these years."

Despite the crease between his eyebrows, the hollow sneer remained on the young man's lips. "Not quite."

There was a bob of Daniel's head, but no other acknowledgment. The bonds were too tight to wriggle free from. Even if they weren't, Daniel knew he was too old to fight off whoever else was here. There had to be more of them, no sane agent went alone, and no agency sent lone agents for jobs like this.

Chuckling wryly, Daniel lolled his head to the side. "You remind me of my brother. Young, ambitious, too proud for his own good."

That drew forth a snort from Adam, who turned so Daniel could only see the profile of his face. Highlights and shadows played out on flesh like the good and evil of one's soul. Skin marred with the ambiguity of the soul. A gun was pulled into Daniel's line of sight, an old revolver. One bullet was pushed into a chamber before Adam rolled the cylinder along him arm. It spun with a soft whir.

"There's only a one in six chance you'll die." The gun twirled idly around his finger, halting momentarily before it spun in the opposite direction. Both of them looked bored with the whole affair. "Or...I could break your fingers. One by one. Then your wrists. Knees break so easily."

Perking suddenly, Adam holstered his gun and wandered behind Daniel. A moment later, glass shattered. Shards spilled under the chair, glittering around Daniel's feet. Adam rounded again to brace his arms against Daniel's shoulders, pushing back until the chair was balanced on its hind legs.

"I'm sure you remember Kristallnacht, rabbi."

Void of expression, Daniel met Adam's gaze. "It says something of a person, doesn't it?"

Adam paused. "Torture tends to bring out who we really are."

"This is why I don't fear you."

"It's why you should." Then he pushed.

A hoarse cry was ripped from Daniel's throat as his arms were crushed beneath his own weight into the pile of broken glass. Away from Daniel's view, Adam cringed. A shiver tore down his spine as he reached down to haul the man back up. The fabric of Daniel's sleeves were shredded, stuck to skin with blood. Droplets of crimson splattered on the ground under his arms, splashing on the shards that remained, shining like stars. Jagged pieces remained lodged in Daniel's arms, aching even when he didn't move. Rough breathing soon morphed into a low chuckle, incessant with a tinge of hysterical. Adam's grip tightened on the bicep he held, hoping to jar the man from his laughter. It only grew louder.

"Stop it!" barked Adam.

"Torture brings out who we really are," Daniel quipped. "It bares your soul, not mine."

"What," Adam pressed, derailing the current conversation, "did the paper say?" It was the desperation that Daniel focused on. Hidden under bravado and anger.

"The KGB should be unconcerned."

A sharp backhand snapped Daniel's head to the side. His mouth tasted like copper. "I'm American," Adam hissed. "What did it say?"

"You're too young for this."

His shirt bunched under Adam's hands as the younger man shook him.

"Answer me!"

"Who holds your faith, Adam?"

"The CIA," came the hissed response, with another firm shake. Daniel worked his aching jaw absently, and shook his head.

"No, your faith. You said you had none to spare." The chair tipped back a bit more. All that kept Daniel from falling back into the glass was the firm hold Adam had on the front of his shirt. "Tell me, and I'll tell you."

With great reluctance, Adam allowed the front two legs of the chair to touch the ground. Releasing his hold on the other's clothing, Adam gestured for him to speak. Perhaps it was the years past; maybe his will had grown as weak as his body, some odd prompting from the resemblance this man held to his brother. Perhaps it was the all too fresh nightmare of his brother, rocking forward as a bullet tore through his chest. Whatever bade it; Daniel opened his mouth and spoke the truth.

"Dimona lives. Everything is ready. Let the tsar move out to meet her."

The young man gave a thoughtful frown, hands fidgeting with his pockets. "And the crest?"

"Mossad."

Sirens sounded in the night, weakly wailing. Before Daniel could ask, a foot was planted on his chest and kicked off. He toppled over, rocking onto his side. Crushed glass sang in his ear. There were harried footsteps, somewhere beyond the pain he felt. Then one word, firmly spoken.

"Snake."

Adam had forsaken God for the serpent. Daniel was laughing when the paramedics found him.


	3. Carthaginian Faith

**Chapter 3 – Carthaginian Faith**

Everything felt disjointed.

Words, numbers and dates kept rolling through his mind like a turbulent sea. Giving, then taking away with the tide. Adam was missing something, some gaping piece of the puzzle that left it nothing more than a wounded, stumbling beast. Not living, not whole, and no one was kind enough to put it out of its misery. It limped on.

Adam growled in annoyance. This is was driving him mad.

He'd returned to Jack's empty home after leaving the rabbi. Calling the ambulance in the first place had been Jack's bad influence, Adam should have left him. He'd left younger men to die in Russia, what was one man teetering at the end of the mortal coil, anyhow? It didn't now. He'd somehow managed to make it to Jack's bed before collapsing. The sheets would need to be changed before the man's return, lest he question the spots of discoloration.

Propped up against the headboard, swathed in the moon beam's marred embrace, Adam sat. The shirt was unbuttoned, pooling on either side of his ribs in large, wrinkled folds. The fly to his pants lay undone. One knee was propped up to support his elbow, a revolver dangling from his listless fingers. Freshly cleaned and incandescent, it complimented Adam's ivory stained skin. Hues of blue bled in from the night, and memories of Russia and ice played out across his flesh.

The chamber hummed a comforting whirr when he spun it with his thumb. It fell nicely in sync with the thrum of pain that danced across his flesh. The epicenter being the dark flesh wound across his left side. The rhythm made sense in his mind; the beat matched the misstep of his thoughts. What was he missing? Purple tendrils slithered out under his flesh, marking the path of destruction the bullet had left. It was a flesh wound, grazed. A fractured rib and lost blood at least. The scab was cracked, streaks of blood dyed a silver-red in the moonlight, mercury stripping his coat.

_Send the tsar out to meet her._

"Dimona..." Adam mused. Studiously, he watched his revolver twirl once about his finger before he made it change direction. "Dimona, Dimona, what game are you playing?"

The chamber rolled again, the barrel tapping out a beat.

"Otshi tshornýe," the lyrics were little more than a purr from his lips, familiar in feel. He worked them over slowly as his eyes fell closed. "Otshi strastnýe, otshi zhgutshiye i prekrasnýe..." His eyes cracked open, gray for the time, watching shadows play across the wall. And the thoughts he'd been trying so hard to grasp finally gathered willingly in his palms. As long as he didn't grasp too tightly, he hoped they wouldn't retreat through his fingertips to return to the sea. The gun was brought to his lips, the end of the barrel lightly pressed against his nose. Lips worked against the cool metal as he continued.

"Kak lublyu ya vas," the voice grew a little stronger, a little louder, "kak bayus ya vas..."

The barrel was tapped twice against his lips, as if to silence something. Then it clicked in Adam's mind.

"Damn it!" he snarled to the empty room. Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, Adam buttoned his pants and snatched his boots from the floor. After grabbing his holster on the way out the bedroom, Adam sprinted barefoot all the way to the car, undone shirt flapping behind him.

* * *

"Southern perimeter clear," informed Jack curtly. He tugged at the green military uniform, annoyed as the medals clanged together. Formal operations dictated all men of military stature, former or otherwise, wore the uniform depicting their rank. The Special Forces badge rested stiffly on his shoulder, making gathered journalists and passengers squirm when he passed by the airport's windows. Though intended as a deterrent for others, sticking out so much made Jack uneasy. He grumbled unhappily. The wool of his jacket didn't make the heat any more bearable. Sweat gathered on the back of his neck, chilled by the breeze. Jack wiped it away.

"Snake, northern perimeter. Hangar A-14."

"Roger."

Stale air hung about Love Field. The bland colors melted away to the endless horizon beyond hunched forms. Buildings grew shapeless with distance, flaws easily overlooked. Golden, dry landscape lay beyond the manicured lawns that lay beside long runways. It once must have held some rugged beauty, land wild as her creatures, untamed as her spirit. Like a scene from the westerns Adam enjoyed. A faint pink hue still traced the edges of the sky.

He bit down a yawn. Frank and Jack had only arrived shortly after one in the morning, neither sleeping well on the plane. There was little rest to be had aside from the scraps they'd managed. The president was due too soon for anyone to be doing anything aside from work. Two men in matching military green uniforms marched by, heading where Jack had just come from. He grunted in annoyance and stepped faster.

The hangar was far off the beaten path. Battle scars in the form of chipped paint marred its bulk, suffering the dents and dings that accompanied old age. Weather had smoothed over the worst of it. The door was open when Jack arrived, a gaping yaw of shadows. Frank's form was easy to make out among the crates of equipment. Dust swirled in the light, brushing along Jack's side as he made a beeline for Frank.

"What's wrong?"

A low creak groaned out from the door, followed by the solid thump of it closing behind him. Briefly, his brought back memories of an old film he'd watched with Kim. Dracula. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end at the thought.

Frank didn't seem alarmed, however, so Jack made no move against the person he sensed behind him. He merely continued his march, halting a few feet from his friend.

"Well?"

"Morning Jack," Lee greeted. Her idyllic voice caught his ear just as she moved into sight. Jack froze as though caught in the cross hairs. Something was wrong. That persistent gnawing in his gut had returned with a vengeance, though he didn't know the reason yet. Acting on instinct, his hand moved toward his gun. A soft 'tsk, tsk, tsk,' and a gentle touch to his bicep stopped the action.

"What's going on?" The edge in his voice was ready to draw blood. With a sigh, Frank's shoulders slumped.

"We couldn't tell you."

Jack scowled, verbal blade still drawn. "Tell me what?"

"Ocelot's a traitor," Lee cut in.

Adamantly, Jack shook his head. "Try again."

Looking more crestfallen than Jack could ever recall seeing him, Frank gave an entreating look. Despondent begging, voiced by his gaze alone. "We have the papers, Jack."

"No," was the whispered rebuttal. A foreboding numbness began to spread through Jack's chest as Frank reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of simple white paper. Almost sentient, it crawled through his muscles, stilled Jack's breathing to a hitched rasp, before it settled in his fingertips. The paper crunched as it was pressed into his hand. He barely recognized his own quavering fingers.

The words were there. Black ink across a watermarked page. Official US documentation, Agent Ocelot traded information with a KGB defector. The corner of the page was torn, garnering more attention that it should have. Evasion of the truth, part of Jack rationalized, but he couldn't focus on the words for more than a moment before his gaze was pulled back to the frayed edge.

Lee placed a hand on Jack's shoulder for comfort. He shrugged off the burn of her touch.

"Jack, I'm sorry. I know he..." she faltered when he turned to glare, finishing almost timidly, "was close to you."

The misery as shoved to the back of his mind, the keen pain of betrayal fading to a dull throb. The mission was the mission; he'd deal with this later.

"We don't have time for this. Will you be able to help?"

"Help what?"

Two orbs of white flashed as Lee's eyes widened momentarily at his business like tone, clearly unnerved at his cool reaction.

"We have a mission."

Jack's gaze locked on Frank, interested. "Roy didn't say anything about--"

"Direct from Zero. We're eliminating a traitor," Lee explained.

Hidden in blue depths, a shot of dread tore through the tranquility. Barely audible, Jack's breath caught in his throat. Frank shook away the worry.

"Not Ocelot." The gentle words soothed the jagged edges of Jack's psyche. He didn't have it in him to kill Adam, regardless of circumstance and its dictation. He hoped, anyway.

"Then who?" Jack rumbled in question. The other two didn't quite share a look, as Lee turned to Frank, and Frank turned away. His gaze locked onto Jack's.

"John Kennedy."

Instantaneously, Jack's eyes flew open, stinging as the dust came in contact with them. Widening his stance defensively, he snarled, "_What?_"

A placating hand was held up, tone gentle enough to match as Lee spoke. "Listen first; he's been selling secrets to the Russians. That's why he's put up such a fight about Negev."

The tense line of Jack's shoulders didn't ease, but curiosity sparked in his eyes. They glowed gently with light stolen from the waning bulb. "Negev?"

Content he wasn't running, Lee nodded. "Negev," she repeated. "Our intelligence uncovered Israel was developing a nuclear program in secret. The US figure heads demanded Israel adhere to international inspections. They agreed, but they weren't happy about it."

A match was struck, flickering a moment before Frank held it to the end of his cigarette. The smoke twisted in the dim light, mercurial in temper and form until it simply disappeared.

"We didn't think much of it, until we intercepted Arabic chatter. We knew the Russians were supplying weapons to the Middle East, but we underestimated it. Some people dug around. Why disarm our only established ally in the region?"

Lee sauntered over to the nearest crate and had a seat. Jack trailed behind her slowly. Frank remained unmoving, watching the smoke from his cigarette with rapt attention.

"Now we know," a bitter smiled curled ruby lips. "The United States has troops there as well, but with Israel more or less helpless, the Russians have no fear of immediate retaliation for any skirmish in the area. Kennedy knew this, he was briefed on it. He was also the one to alert the world to the Negev Nuclear Research Center and instill sanctions."

The silence was so thick that Jack found it hard to breath. Sluggishly, he reached up to rub the back of his neck. It was covered with a cool sheen of sweat. The heat no longer registered. He pulled his hand away and it fell heavily to his side.

"What about impeachment?"

"Don't be naive, Jack," Lee chided. "You think the American people would believe that?" She snorted. "They don't want to believe it and we're not about to make them."

Bemused, Jack shot Frank's back an imploring look. The other man didn't turn around, but he spoke, feeling the weight of the gaze.

"We have to," he said, lips tight around the cigarette in the corner of them. "It's our mission."

There was a bleak sense of loyalty in his statement. Their mission. That's all it boiled down to in the end, regardless of the target, just another mission.

"And what about Adam?"

Casting a glance over his shoulder, Frank tossed his cigarette to the floor. Its embers continued to glow meekly.

"What about him?"

"What happens to him?"

One shoulder was shrugged in response. "What do you want me to say? He's a sleeper agent, so long as he isn't activated, I see little problem."

Serpentine coils constricted around Jack's heart. "And if he is?"

"I'll trust what you decide." The embers were snuffed under Frank's boot. He pulled his sleeve up to look at his wristwatch. "We need to move into position."

"Jack," Lee prompted, "Are you with us?"

The sound of the 'yes' died in his throat. He closed his eyes, drawing in a steadying breath. The phantom warmth of a memory, Adam in his arms, shook the doubt. It crumbled away to reveal the untarnished trust. Jack shook his head.

"No. I'll…I'm sitting this one out."

Frank's gaze looked pained. Jack didn't have time to wonder why before Lee's gun cracked against the back of his skull. There was the abrupt sense of vertigo, blocked out by the darkness.

"Sorry, Jack," echoed impishly in his mind.

* * *

"How much longer?"

"You going to tell me what this is about?" Cougar asked in turn. Ocelot made a noise of general discontent. They'd only worked together a handful of times previously, not quite enough to be on an actual name basis, but Cougar distinctly recalled Ocelot always being shadowed by a gruff, caveman figure. The caveman was oddly absent this time.

"Can this go faster?"

Cougar spared a glance at the control board. They were already pushing his baby pretty hard.

"Sure, if you don't mind running out of fuel and dropping from the sky like a rock. I figure we have nine lives between us though, someone's bound to walk away."

Ocelot gave a grunt, pressing the headset more firmly against his ear with one hand while he fiddled with the knobs. Being brushed off was really beginning to get on Cougar's nerves. He sighed, ripping his own headset off and settling it around his neck.

"What's going on?"

"Classified."

Gritting his teeth, Cougar shot Ocelot a sharp glare form the corner of his eye. "Don't pull that shit. Classified means Zero radios me in at five in the morning; you don't break down my door all personal like to rip me out of bed." There was a snort from the other man. "This have to do with your caveman?"

That seemed enough to catch Ocelot's attention. Hard won as it was, Cougar wasn't about to let it go. The Cessna was loud, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the silence that fell between them.

"My what?" The confusion was evident as the crease between Ocelot's eyebrows. With a Cheshire grin, Cougar turned back to the skies, breathing a bit easier.

"Caveman. The guy always following you."

Ocelot seemed stuck on stupefied, however. "Following me?"

"Do I have to flip a switch to get you to stop repeating me?" the pilot snapped. He shook his head. Ocelot was probably only half listening while he fiddled with the busted radio. "During the Russian thing. He chased the plane during the first run in, taking shots at the plane with his pistol. Crazy bastard."

"Snake?"

"That his name?" Cougar didn't exactly remember ever exchanging names with the man. Either circumstance or comfort had had them speak mostly through Ocelot whenever they'd been forced to interact. Odd in hindsight. It was just as well, ground troops never had the highest opinion of fly-boys. It was a standard rule of military employ, everyone hated the Air Force. "We've got an ETA of forty minutes."

"Fine."

The level of discomfort grew once more. In hopes of crippling it, Cougar let out a quiet, "So..."

That seemed a straw too much for the poor camel's back. Ocelot turned to him, brows drawn together. "Are you ever quiet?"

The sharp chastising drew forth a reflexive wince from Cougar. The years had gentled his memory of Ocelot's temper. He sniffed, annoyed by the brusque nature of his passenger.

"Rawr," he mocked. The quiet bubbled, contorting into something deadly and thick. There was no clock with a second hand to highlight the passage of terse seconds, but Ocelot could hear his own heartbeat clear enough in his ears to count them in his head. The clock built into the plane's panel showed bright green numbers that rolled slowly forward.

Undeterred, Cougar attempted to strike up another conversation. "Do you remember Dingo?"

"Dingo?" Ocelot's tone grew something akin to wistful as he answered his own prompt. "The Czech with the notch in his ear. Always howled."

"That'd be him. SOB would hang out of the damn plane to howl at the people shooting at us."

There was a noise of acknowledgment, but it was distracted. Ocelot must have found his signal then. Nodding, Cougar fell silent as he replaced his own headset. Damned if he wasn't going to find out what was going on.

Urgency thick in his tone, Ocelot growled into the microphone, "Snake?"

There was the gentle lullaby of static, interrupted by two clicks. Cougar was about to suggest trying another frequency when sound began pouring from the speakers. Murmurs, nothing distinguishable, and then the whisper of fabric. Nothing more than ripples on the water. Then, a crisp female laugh pierced the lull.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. You're getting slow, Adam."

Eyes wide, Cougar turned to Ocelot. He didn't really look like an Adam. The other man seemed to have turned to stone and showed no reaction beyond his mouth going slack.

"Cat got your tongue?" the female prompted.

"Lee..." Ocelot breathed. All the wonder sharpened to a point, "Where's Snake?"

Movement played in their ears. There was a soft hum before her voice continued. "I've wondered. Do you know what Zero told me when I was awarded my codename? 'The strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.'" Her thumb stayed firmly pressed on the talk button, leaving Ocelot unable to respond with the curse he wished. "My nature is understood. But what about you? Cats show no loyalty, Adam. Why pursue this?"

"Bitch!" Ocelot snarled as soon as he was able to be heard. "Where is he?"

There was no reply.

"Answer me!"

Clearing his throat, Cougar tore his eyes away from the other man. There was a helplessness in his tone that Cougar could not remember hearing prior.

"ETA of twenty-eight minutes."

Ocelot nodded, the black plastic fracturing in his grip.

* * *

The still sputtering radio was given a blank look before Frank kicked it nearer Snake. He'd need it when he woke up.

"That was unnecessary," he noted, turning to face Lee.

She shrugged. "I was curious."

"He's the cat."

"Which is why the curiosity won't kill me," she countered.

"Hm."

"Are you done?" a third voice intervened. Frank crossed his arms, watching Lee with unwavering eyes as she nodded and moved to stand nearer the other female agent. The other woman was pretty, but her state of dress and lack of make up downplayed her beauty. Large sunglasses were perched on her nose, blocking out all view of her eyes. A pink headscarf hid most of her dyed brown hair from view. A simple trench coat hung off her shoulders, ending just above her knees. "I will need my camera if I'm to meet the president."

Smiling, Lee went to pull a camera from the duffel bag she'd hidden in one of the jeeps stored in the hanger. It was large, but not conspicuously so. The woman took it, inspecting the outside briefly before flicking open the plastic tab that should reveal where the film went. Instead, a neat clip of nine millimeter bullets gleamed jovially in the light.

"Are you sure you can get a clean shot?"

The woman laughed off Frank's question, closing up the chamber once more. "If I couldn't, I'd trade you places on the hill."

"Just don't hit his wife."

The woman pouted, over exaggerating her dismay at the order. "Darling, she won't be a problem. She never was. I certainly wouldn't risk years of hard work on her." Her laugh was fluttery and fake; Frank didn't bother to hide his wince.

In the corner, the radio continued to call for Snake with Adam's voice, distorted with static and barely veiled worry. Frank almost doubted his objective for a moment.

"He is the Cat," he said clearly, just loud enough to draw the attention of both females. He titled his head to the side. "You wanted to know, right. Zero didn't say it to him, but said it to Snake and me. 'He is the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to him.'" Lee frowned. "Snake laughed." The memory drew a smirk from Frank.

"Touching story," the woman cooed, stroking the camera lovingly with her thumb. "Where did you get this? Last I heard the United States preferred umbrella guns."

Lee gave a snort of laughter, understanding a joke that Frank felt he'd missed. "Russian equipment. We had to destroy a whole archive room to get it. Should make the story believable."

Frank grunted in agreement. The women tilted her head, forcing Frank to assume she was studying the camera as the glasses effectively hid her eyes.

A groan of pain sounded from Snake's shifting form.

"Why's the radio here? Frank, hide this. We can't have him calling for help right after he comes to."

After snatching the radio off the floor, Lee slapped it against Frank's chest. She was walking out the door with the other woman by the time he looked up.

He shivered, almost able to feel the web of lies clinging to his skin. They rattled like wind chimes, sounding of broken trust. He looked from Jack's form to the radio in his grasp, before placing it exactly where he had before. Jack's fingertips lay brushing it.

Barely able to breathe, Frank shut his eyes and mumbled a quiet apology. Hiding the radio would have been far more treacherous than killing a leader ever was.

The acts in the hanger were what made him a traitor, and he regretted every moment. Just not enough to turn around.

* * *

Ocelot had fallen silent. The very notion had Cougar jumpier than he would have liked while piloting. Silence meant thinking. Ocelot was a dangerous thinker. Cougar fiddled with a switch. It was broken, had been for months, but as long as he was doing something then he wouldn't have to do anything cerebral himself. He honestly wasn't sure he wanted to know what was going on anymore.

Ignorance and bliss and all that.

"Where's your black book?" Ocelot finally asked. There was a curious hum from Cougar in turn. "Where is it?"

"Odd time to be looking for a date. Shouldn't you at least wait until you know your caveman is dead?"

The glare he received cut like a diamond blade. Wrong button to push. He nodded, bending to reach under his seat. The small book was tossed in Ocelot's direction. Cougar could only assume the other caught it.

"Who're you looking up?"

"Who can I trust?"

Drumming his fingers, Cougar frowned. He hadn't spoken to most of the agents in that since they were embedded. It jeopardized the mission, but more than that most of them just weren't people he wanted to keep in contact with.

"Look under the name Harvey. Oswald, if I'm right. He's new, but he ran Russian missions. Good little patriot."

"You're sure?"

"Well, I'm not you and I'm not God, so I'm as sure as I can be."

"Shut up." There was the noise of ripping paper, followed by the book being tossed into the backseat. Cougar turned to watch it hit the seat and bounce onto the floor before scowling at Ocelot.

"Jesus, why is it every time we meet you destroy my stuff? You blow this plane up too and I will kill you. Secret Operation: Save Caveman be damned, got it?"

Ocelot glanced up, but didn't acknowledge a word. Snorting, Cougar muttered unflattering phrases under his breath, most of centering on the adage 'more than one way to skin a cat'.

The radio spouted static.

"Oswald," a voice replied. Ocelot almost grinned.

"Agent Oswald, are you on standby?"

There was a noise of general shuffling. "Yes, sir."

A sigh escaped his lips, more a hiss in nature. "We're on red."

"Sir?" was repeated, the epitome of confusion. A look was thrown Cougar's way. What could he say at this point?

"Be on the lookout for Mossad agents. They're making an attempt on the president's life. Eliminate as needed, backup is en route."

"Fuck," Cougar mouthed, jaw unhinged. He met Ocelot's eyes, panic burning in them.

"Affirmative. Maintaining silence." The line went dead. Slumping against the window, Ocelot was thankful for the cool glass. A headache was pulsing behind his eyes.

"You're the backup?" gaped Cougar, still fumbling to catch up.

"Snake's the backup."

"Snake…fuck, does Zero know?"

A sliver of blue became visible as Ocelot opened his eyes. "No."

"Who does?"

"The people who need to," impatience was edging into Ocelot's voice. Cougar, however, had years of ignoring such dangerous tones in soldiers and pressed on.

"Zero doesn't need to know?"

"He'll know when it's over."

"_Everyone_ will know when it's over."

Ocelot was silent. The plane droned on, oblivious to how her owner was shaking. Listlessly, Ocelot watched the clouds part over the wings. Any moment now, the world was going to come to an abrupt end, and they would fall like a bird with broken wings to whatever remained.

* * *

The radio was hidden under Oswald's discarded jacket, safely stuffed into the corner with the carpet he'd wrapped his gun in earlier that day. The zipper had gotten stuck when he was removing it, and he'd ripped it, too nervous to fix it properly.

He ran a hand through his hair, rubbing the grease off on his pants. After a final cautious glance out the doorway, Oswald shut it quietly. The boxes scraped loudly against the floor as he moved to barricade them to create the sniper's nest. He piled them as high as he dared.

His Mauser was propped up against one of the boxes, shielded from sight. Oswald couldn't stop shaking. He sat down, watching the street out of the window. It was littered with people. A sea of people, headscarves dotting the ripples of hair color and hats. Bright and shapeless like sea foam. Sweat slicked his palms. This was for his country, but that provided no comfort.

His tongue felt swollen and clumsy in his mouth. If he radioed back, he could back out. Just leave the room and pretend he never heard of it. The glint of a windshield shone through the trees and he watched forms pile out of the car. He would have turned away if not for the silhouette of something long and thing that he caught through the dancing leaves. Their merry movement seemed mockingly slow.

The form with the suspicious shape disappeared. Oswald sat up straighter, paying more attention to the crowd. Grabbing his Mauser, Oswald clutched it close to his frame. The tremors worsened as he reached over to grab a bullet. Loading the cartridge, he closed his eyes as he cocked the gun. The sound burned his ears.

He took in a deep breath, faltering as he let it out.

_For the good of the country…_

Oswald opened his eyes, jaw set in determination.

* * *

"You're not going to back out?" Lee asked, peering over her sunglasses. Frank adjusted the strap on his shoulder, all too aware of the weight in the duffel bag. She touched his elbow; he smiled, forced and splintered.

"No," he assured. She tipped her head back, the glasses slid back up her nose and reflected the lightly. Frank looked away, not wanting to be blinded. Her eyebrows drew together and disappeared behind the frames.

There was a fence behind the line of trees. A parking lot lay on the other side, where Lee and Frank were standing. Lee leaned against the fence, brushing her hair behind her ear. She could only see love and regret in Frank's eyes, unsure which fracture of emotion was meant for her. She could only guess as to whom the other belonged.

"What's wrong?"

Words died on his tongue. Instead he cleared his throat, swallowing their corpses. Placing a firm hand on Lee's shoulder, Frank pulled her into a kiss. Bitter lipstick was all he could taste. Poison on his lips. He eased away, trying to catch any sign of affection behind her sunglasses. There was nothing but the dark pools of tinted glass.

"Everything."

"Everything?"

With a nod, Frank wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and spat at the ground. The taste lingered.

"We didn't kill him."

The words didn't ease the heavy weight on Frank's chest. He rubbed absently above his heart, thankful he'd abandoned his suit jacket in the station wagon. The dress shirt itched. A smaller hand grasped his own and pulled it away from his chest.

He shook his hand free and shoved it into his pocket. Lee didn't frown, just arched a brow in turn.

Frank whispered, "I think we did."

He'd seen it there on that concrete floor. Outlined in fine chalk and marked off with tape, but no one paid the dead any respect. The white powder was still on Lee's boots.

"Don't forget where we're meeting."

"I won't."

Lee pursed her lips. She wanted to say more, but there was nothing else to be voiced. It wouldn't be discussed, merely fester between them until the tide pulled it away. She pressed a kiss to Frank's cheek and patted his shoulder twice.

He watched her walk away, content with the swaying of her hips. Once she was out of sight, he sighed, squaring his shoulders.

It was too late to back down. The bullets rattled in the duffel bag as he scrambled over the tall wooden fence. Splinters bit into his fingertips. The bag caught on the edge of the fence, thumping soundly against his back as he landed.

"I'm so sorry, Snake."

* * *

Slowly, Love Field came into view. A distant, ominous dot on the landscape. Roads were woven like webs beneath them, sparks of moving color caught fast. The plane began its approach at what seemed like a crawl. Ocelot fidgeted in his seat, restless, hoping they wouldn't get caught in the web.

"Don't stop when you hit the runway."

"_What? _You realize what will happen when _you_ hit the runway if I don't stop, right?"

Ocelot frowned, smoothing the front of his suit. The action was inane enough to calm him slightly. It was lightly too large, long in the arms and loose in the chest. Commandeered from Cougar to replace the bloodied, torn shirt he'd worn the previous day, Ocelot couldn't stop tugging at it. The tie lay undone over his shoulders, bright red. He tied it, and then quickly pulled it free once more before finally shoving it in his pocket. It was too long anyway.

"They can't catch you. You'd sing like a bird."

Cougar's brows raised, mouth a confused cross between a frown and a smirk. Nostalgia finally decided upon the latter.

"And you'll break every bone in your body."

There was a snort. "I'll be fine."

"Or dead," Cougar chirped sarcastically. Ocelot's fingers drummed quietly against his knees, the rhythm swallowed by the whir of the engine. The radio refused to offer any comfort, and for all his determination, Ocelot could only let his heart twist in frustration and hate every shred of hope he was forced to cling to. Hope was for dreamers and heroes; he should have had a plan, a backup, some fail-safe to prevent this. He'd been too slow, too unobservant, and he'd faltered in the dance. Now Adam was being led to disaster in three fourths time.

Taking back control without stepping on toes would be difficult, if it was possible at all. His cover was shot. _Lead on, Mr. Reaper_.

"Seriously, you know even dumping your ass on grass could hurt right?"

Ocelot tipped his chin up defiantly, a soft hiss voicing more protest than anything in his vocabulary. Cougar ran a hand over his brown hair, fingertips audibly skimming over the band of his headset as green eyes grew hard around the edges.

"Fine, your choice. Better roll when you hit the ground." After a pause, he cautioned, "Any gun you have could jolt enough to go off."

A moment of awkward shifting and shuffling of fabric was followed by a leather shoulder holster being dropped to the floor. The corner of Cougar's mouth twitched at the thunder of the pistol. A rain of bullets fished from his pockets followed, rattling against one another. Then the storm settled and Cougar shot the other a brief glare.

"Attention, this is the Love Field tower. You're coming in too fast."

Cougar clicked off the radio. The two men shared a grin, slanted and dark.

"Break a leg."

Ocelot snorted. "I'm sure you'd enjoy that."

* * *

"Alpha team set."

"Check. Bravo in position."

"Charlie is go," a brush of fingers, easily passed off as an adjustment of her coat in the wind, activated the communication device. The crowd thinned as she neared the curb across from the knoll. Only a young boy and his father stood too near her. She smiled kindly as the child caught her eye, but didn't linger too near. The camera was Russian in make; there was no telling how loud the shot would be.

"1215, Delta team delayed."

* * *

The wind clawed at Adam's frame, more than ready to rip the man from where he perched low on the plane's wing. Closing his eyes left him with visions of the river Styx. The dead clamored over one another to dig their bones into his apparel, into his flesh, and drag him down into Tartarus with them. So he kept them open, squinting against the vicious wind even as his eyes watered.

They were barely more than fifty feet up now. Adam's fingers hurt from how hard he held on. The Cessna's wheels bounced off the lawn, throwing grass and dirt in its wake. The jolt almost knocked Adam from his perch, and he scrambled for a better hold before reminding himself he needed to fall. Sucking in a deep breath, the young man threw himself outward from the wing so that he wouldn't hit the Cessna before he did the ground.

Time slowed to a mocking crawl. He didn't flail, but he hit the ground hard, pain registering somewhere in his ankle. To help lose the momentum Adam moved to roll, bouncing hard off his shoulder as his lungs deflated and his breath was lost. There was a blur of color, sky and ground shifting fluidly, before time lurched forward to continue at a normal pace.

Adam remained sprawled on his stomach, face pressed into the cool grass. The ragged breathing hurt his chest.

Cold fingers trailed along his cheek. Daring brave the light, Adam looked up, confused by the grey haired man smiling down at him. A thick line of blood trailed down the man's cheek. Adam reached up blindly to brush it away, only to have his hand gently lowered. The stranger's warm smile widened as he wagged his finger at Adam. Then he moved the finger to his lips and stood to back away.

"Adam!"

Adam moved onto his hands and knees. The earth, deciding it liked to move erratically, pulled out from under him. One opened in time for the light to be blocked by a shadow. It knelt beside him, pulling Adam to his feet.

"You never answer the damn radio when you need to."

Adam nodded, helping stagger to the jeep, engine running. He grabbed at Jack's uniform, comforted by the rough wool.

"You didn't answer." He could feel Jack grunt.

"I've been around you too long."

The hold on Jack's uniform tightened. "He was crying."

Jack stopped. "What?"

Disentangling himself from the other man, Adam continued forward. He took the driver's seat, motioning for Jack to get in. Dubiously, the man did so.

"What time is it?" Focus regained, Adam shifted the jeep to drive and tore off across the runway.

Jack pushed up his sleeve, frowning at the broken glass of his watch. "Twelve twenty-three."

The engine roared as Adam hit the floor of the jeep with the accelerator.

"Get the police station on the radio."

* * *

Her gold watch stated 12:28.

"Target is in sight."

She strained her neck, standing on the tips of her toes to see above the shifting sea of people, to see the gleam of the black limo. Red lips morphed into a simple curl of lips, understated and disturbing. She traced the edge of the camera's trigger with one finger, bouncing lightly on her toes.

She watched the approach through the cross hairs. There was no distinct noise of gunfire. Pleased, she lowered the camera and moved off the street and back to her place prior. The boy flashed her another grin. Behind her, Kennedy grasped at his throat.

"We have one hit. Good work, Charlie."

* * *

"Oh God."

Despite all his training, Oswald didn't know what to do. Connolly appeared to lurch forward in the president's limo, and Oswald squeezed off an accidental shot. The damage to the stop sign was easily seen through his scope. It was when he was surveying such that he noted the movement to the left of it.

Steeling himself, the operative aligned the shot and squeezed off two more bullets. The human shaped mass ducked from view.

* * *

"B-bravo down."

"Understood, enact escape plan, Bravo."

"Roger."

* * *

"Someone's holding the channel open."

"What?" Adam hissed, spinning the jeep around as they hit another roadblock. Damn the parade. The tires screeched are the back of the vehicle swung around, skid marks painted on the road behind them.

The CB radio crackled as police transmissions began to filter through the speaker. Sharp pops sounded. Jack frowned, muttering quietly to himself.

A car pulled out in front of the speeding jeep, its tail clipped and sent into a spin. The jeep thrashed to the side, rocking before once more finding its balance.

"Adam, slow down!"

The younger man didn't respond, eyes unblinking as they stared down the road.

* * *

Frank collected the single spent shell from the ground. His gun had fired when he'd jerked to the side. The bullet had overshot and slammed into the curb on the next street over. There had been a spray of concrete.

He stumbled back toward the station wagon. It was an ugly thing, but it worked. He opened the back and threw in the bag that held his gun before crawling in the back himself. The bullet hadn't gone through. He could almost feel it, somewhere in the web of pain, firmly embedded in his shoulder. That had either been a really good shot, or really dumb luck.

Part of him hoped it was the former. One of the men they'd bought off, some immigrant with a cheap suit and a fake FBI badge, closed the door after him. They'd keep people away from the car long enough for the escape.

Having nothing to hold against it, Frank pressed his hand against the bullet wound and hoped to slow the bleeding. But there was so much of it, it didn't take a genius to figure out something vital had at least been nicked. Frank screwed his eyes shut, bright red flooding his vision.

It was almost a relief. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, life for a life. His for what he'd done to Snake.

* * *

Oswald's hands were shaking too badly for him to do anything else. He set the Mauser to the side, knowing he'd failed already. He couldn't do this. He wasn't a hero. Barely able to stand thanks to the tremors, he pushed himself up and walked from the sniper's nest. Shutting the door behind him, he walked dazedly down the stairs toward the Coke vending machine. There was a chance he waved to someone, but he couldn't recall who.

The numb feeling spread like poison.

* * *

The limousine was almost directly in front of her when Kennedy's head snapped backward, then jerked forward with the force of her own shot. There was a spray of blood and brains unlike anything she'd seen thus far. And the world was solemn and quiet, trapped in disbelieve. Then the fractured bits of their world of make believe gave way to the stark, ugly colors of reality and all silence shattered to a fine powder. It was carried on the wind, lifted upon the chaotic screams and shouts, and it scarred every lung that drew it in.

The presidential vehicle stalled a moment, then speed off into the distance. It barely escaped her sight before the crowds began moving every which way in search of the guilty. It was a witch hunt, the masses caught in the hysteria as the scales tipped in their halcyon little lives. One delicate hand was placed over her mouth, a mask of shock to hide the gentle grin that burned through the fissures. She stayed only a moment before following the crowd up the knoll. Men in suits met them at the top, herding away policemen and civilians like sheep. One recognized her and let her squeeze through the human blockade to make her escape. The car sat in the background, forgotten by the rest of the world.

* * *

_"-repeat, the president has been shot. He's being rushed to the-"_

"God damn it!" Adam roared, slamming down on the brakes. Jack's out flung hand was the only think that kept him from bouncing off the steering wheel. "God-fucking-damn it!" The CB radio met a swift end when Adam's foot collided with it. Then the fury melted out of him, and Adam slumped against the steering wheel, repeating the quiet mantra of "damn it."

Jack, for his part, moved his hand slowly away from Adam's chest, letting it fall to his side. _The president has been shot_. And something in Jack's mind, shifted to allow his disconnect thoughts to swirl into something resembling coherency. He clung to the first stable thought he could.

"How did the story end?"

Adam sputtered, indignant, because what did it matter now? He knew the end now; the whole world knew the end to the story without ever knowing the '_Once upon a time…_' They'd been cheated of that much. Jack felt exposed, could feel the scrutiny of the world fall upon his shoulders for this fiasco. He wasn't sure a country could commit suicide, but it seemed the perfect analogy.

"It can't…." Adam slammed his palms against the steering wheel. Livid blue eyes burned the last vestiges of hope, determined not to waver even if the flames left hollow men in their wake. "It won't end this way."

It was said with such certainly, that Jack almost believed. But he didn't want to; he dug his heels in and fought against it. Lee was a crack shot; there was no way she could miss.

"How do we fix it?"

Adam's head jerked right to face Jack as if pulled from a daze, a flicker of something dancing behind the flames. The pin point intensity should have been intimidating. His stomach clenched, leading Jack to believe that at least part of him recognized the danger. Adam was thinking.

The answer was so simple that Adam almost laughed. "We lie."

"What? How the hell do we _lie_ to cover up _this_?"

"I…America can't be crippled by someone else. We built this, only _we_ can be allowed to tear it asunder." Shadows along Jack's brow stated that he didn't understand. Adam tried unsuccessfully to shrug the concerned touch off his shoulder and slowly started up the car. The car lumbered on, its driver obviously distracted. The hand gave a comforting squeeze before falling away.

"If we lose face, lose confidence…we might as well show the Kremlin our belly."

Jack nodded, casting Adam cautious glance. His gun was weighted and useless, only serving to remind him this wasn't a something he could simply shoot and make it go away. It wouldn't move away, it would disappear at all hours of the night or drive him insane by asking too many questions. The country was leaderless thanks to their own, and that dwarfed every problem Jack could ever recall experiencing.

"What's the plan?" asked Jack, fully confident there was one. There had to be one or Adam would still be lost somewhere in thought where Jack couldn't reach him.

"We need a new radio."

* * *

Sirens caught in the rear-view mirror, the bright lights danced across the ceiling of the car. Frank watched them with half lidded eyes as they moved in and out of focus. From the front, the woman cursed, slowly pulling over to the curb.

The police car pulled up behind them, the officer taking his time as he gathered his ticket book and approached her window. She flashed a dazzling smile, fleeting as a rainbow. The officer returned it with something more full of country charm than her own glitz and glam.

"Excuse me, ma'am, do you know how fast you were going?"

She looked the tiniest hint distraught. "I'm sorry, no. I was just in such a rush to get my children. I'm worried."

Tippit, his badge read, rubbed the back of his neck and quietly expressed his understanding. "I read to call in your plate, ma'am. We'll get you out of here as soon as we can."

The policeman turned and was walking toward his own car when he caught a glimpse of the still body through the station wagon's window. Alarmed, he turned around only to see the flash of a gun muzzle. He staggered backward, arms out flung. The woman persisted, the sharp symphony of thunder and gunfire echoing in his ears. A ruby painted lie danced before him, and he was unable to focus on anything over than her red lips.

Tippit fell to the curb, blood slicking the front of his uniform. Then the streets grew painfully quiet, interrupted only by the retreating sound of heels. The station wagon tore away, leaving Tippit to bleed out beside his own police car.

The sky's blue seemed to dim.

* * *

The dark theatre provided minuscule comfort. Oswald shifted in his seat, resisting the urge to itch his sweaty palms. He was more than anxious to meet the other agent and get far away from his resounding failure. A foreign post sounded like temptation incarnate now. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, unable to breathe as the fabric stuck to his form.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, prompting Oswald to look around the room, barely able to see anything save for the fleeting flickers the wavering light provided. He'd just begun to force himself to relax when the lights went up and the screen died. A general murmur of confusion resonated from the small crowd. Silence struck it down as the emergency exit flew open, the thump of the entrance doors close on its heels. Policemen poured into the room, guns drawn.

"Lee Harvey Oswald!"

Oswald didn't move, frozen where he sat with wide, unfocused eyes. The nearest officer approached him, taking firm hold of his bicep with one hand and pulled Oswald to his feet. A moment later the back of the seat in front of him was digging into his stomach, keeping an uncomfortable pressure on his ribs. The arresting officer was rambling off his Miranda rights, forcing his arms to twist so he could put cuffs on them. They felt like ice.

"On what charge?" Oswald managed to ask, not resisting as he was directed toward the door he'd come in. Police lined either side of him. The grip on his arm tightened to something painful.

"High treason."

Oswald paled.

* * *

He'd taken off again.

There had been no objection. Jack didn't know near enough about the situation to be of any use, and he was hardly gifted with a silver tongue. He was a fighter, but there was no fighting to be done. Only pretty lies and stories needed to be woven, things that didn't need efficiency or rough hands. He brushed a thumb along his callused palms and sighed. Everything felt unhinged.

Through the dirtied window, over cracked concrete and brick buildings, Jack could see a band of light being crushed into the horizon by the night sky. He was almost certain the sky would crack and rain down on them. Waning sunlight and stray beams from street lamps were all that lit the sparse hotel room, highlighting Jack's skin with artistic planes and shadows, halted only by the waistband of Jack's pants. The rest of his clothing had been shed like a second skin, lying wherever it fell. He popped his knuckles, sharp elbows pressed against his knees as he sat on the edge of the bed. The ugly floral print, orange and white, held too much starch. Cigar smoke hung thickly in the air, but he was on his third.

Stray thoughts had kept him occupied since they'd parted ways at noon. Most of them made little sense, more feelings that he couldn't articulate properly. Honesty always sounded so cheap in one's ears. Ash fell from the tip of the cigar. A majority landed on the carpet, a sprinkling fell upon Jack's hands like black snow. A bare foot scraped the clump of ash against the bright green shag carpet. The cigar was viciously stabbed into the ash tray; the faint glow of embers was quickly killed. A final curl of smoke faded into oblivion.

_"By the end of this, you'll be wrong about someone."_

Adam had been right about that, at the very least. But who had Jack been wrong about? His heart felt distinctly torn, acting without regard to what his mind said. Jack had seen the papers; he'd held them in his hands. But the paper and his gut were saying different things.

_"Ocelot's a traitor."_

"Damn it," Jack swore, snatching the cigar back up from the nightstand and holding it between his teeth. He chewed on the end instead of lighting it. He only had five matches left in the book. Making a noise of frustration, he laid back, legs still draped over the edge.

The hotel room's door opened and closed, and Jack shut his eyes.

"If you're going to pretend to sleep, don't chew on the damn cigar."

Jack hummed, watching Adam move about the hotel room through his eyelashes. Gently blurred, the grass stained jacket was the first to go, cast to the chair in the corner of the room. The wine red tie was loosened enough for Adam to unbutton the white shirt. It fell open as moved to the window to draw the curtains closed. Jack blinked to adjust to the dimmer lighting.

"I hate this town," Adam said, not a hint of malice in his voice. It was a quieter anger, echoing despair. Jack sat up so he was leaning back on his elbows. He knew, had known, it was just a matter of vocalizing it. Adam toed off his shoes and socks, letting the slightly too big pants fall to the floor next. Mutely, Jack watched, grinning at the slight chime of the belt's buckle.

"Ask."

"What?" Jack responded automatically.

"Stop it and ask."

He let out a slow breath, watching Adam sit on the other bed across from him.

"Are you a traitor?"

Adam tilted his head in curiosity, something sparking in his eyes. His chin tipped up defiantly. "Yes."

Narrowing his own gaze, Jack pressed his mouth into a grim line. "To who?"

"That's not what you want to know."

Jack raised his brows, watching Adam intently. The younger man crossed his arms over his chest, and then unfolded them once more before averting his eyes. The absence of deception left him feeling barer than his lack of clothing. All it took was a look; it was another thing he hated about Jack.

"Not you," came the soft admission.

"Okay."

Shoulders tensing, Adam leaned back onto his arms. He prompted, "Okay?"

A shrug, half hearted, "C'mere."

An annoyed look was shot in Jack's direction, but Adam complied. He leaned forward. Rolling his eyes, the Jack sat up fully and latched onto the loose red tie with one hand. His other hand grabbed Adam's bicep and he gave both a sharp tug. Adam moved forward, landing with his chest against Jack's stomach.

"Jack..." Growling, Adam planted a hand firmly in the middle of Jack's chest and shoved the man back onto the bed. He chuckled in response as Adam moved to straddle his waist. The tie was given another tug, pulling the younger man into a soft kiss.

"I trust you." _I love you, I want you, I like you, I hate you. _Adam flinched, uncertain what weight to give the confession. His hands moved to rest on Jack's shoulders, thumbs pressing hard into the flesh under the collarbone. It elicited a soft grunt but no retaliation. No equal but opposite reaction. Short nails dug into Jack's skin. Their mouths crashed together a moment later, frenzied and awkward as Ocelot's split lip began to bleed once more. One large hand cradled the back of Adam's head. The day's events were pushed the side as he fought to keep the larger man pinned to the ugly orange flowers that decorated the bed. Regret was for a later time.


	4. Piper's News

**Chapter 4 - Piper's News**

Even before the sunlight had heralded the new day, Jack kept silent vigil. Adam was loosely curled at his side, content to remain in the realm of absurdity. The slumbering body placed so that if Jack tried to lean over to get anything with nicotine that he'd left on the nightstand, he'd jar the other awake. Part of him honestly believed it had been thought out in advance. Jack threw and arm over his eyes, grinning moronically at the ceiling. Then again, he thought wryly, they'd barely finished when Adam fell dead to the world. It was probably just as well, given the general ache of Jack's body.

Moving his arm, Jack could watch the slow shift of Adam's shoulders that pronounced each breath. Bruises spotted the pale skin, all varied in size and spread out artistically like the final flourish to a large cat's coat. The black eye the younger man had sported days prior had lessened to a dusting of grey-purple, it spread over the bridge of his nose. The healing slit lip had made little progress of the forward nature thanks to Jack, but there had been no voiced complaint. Light haloed the curtains, echoing the clock's sentiments that it was too late to sleep.

Sliding a hand down Adam's side, Jack pauses at the stained makeshift bandage. The gauze didn't begin to cover the discoloration that spread out from under it. The shade didn't match the other bruises. Adam shifted under his touch, trying to move away from the pressure. Warmed flesh, by sleep and infection, brushed against his fingertips and Jack pushed down on the dirtied gauze roughly. A sharp yelp tore through the air as Adam jolted awake.

"The fuck is your problem?" he snarled, shoving Jack's arm away roughly.

"How does it end?"

Adam scrubbed a hand over his face, sitting up to rest his arms on his knees. "What?"

"The story. How did it end?"

"Oh."

Throwing off the sheets, Jack swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Threading his fingers together, Jack stared down at his feet and silently waited for Adam to begin.

"After the king met the Shamakha Queen--"

"Dimona."

"Dimona. The king fell in love with her. He brought her back with him to his city. The tsar forgot why he left. The wizard who gave him the cockerel met them on the way to the palace and confronted the tsar. He'd finally come for payment and he wanted...Dimona. The tsar said no. Anything but her, take the treasury, take the palace, take half the kingdom, but not her." There was a hitch in Adam's voice. Jack lifted his eyes to stare at the wall, resisting the urge to turn around.

"Then there was a sound from the highest spire. The whole capital looked on as the cockerel headed toward Dadon. Like a shot he flew down, landing on the tsar's crown. He fluttered wildly, pecking into his head, and flew off..." A throat cleared. "It can be said that from the carriage the tsar fell. Exactly what killed him, no one could tell. And the queen disappeared as if she never were."

"They were bragging."

A noise of affirmation sounded from behind Jack's back. "They were telling us why."

"Dimona, for where Negev is. I get it. What now?"

A shiver spread down his spine. Clenching his teeth, Jack steeled himself against it relieved when the scalding weight of Adam's gaze moved elsewhere.

"That depends on you. I need to talk to Oswald." The confusion must have been evident in the line of his shoulders, because Adam continued after brief hesitance. "After we lost contact, he was the only one I could get a hold of. He needs to take the fall."

Jack responded bitterly, "Because he's American."

"Mossad wanted us to blame Russia; they went through a lot of trouble to make it look like communism had a hand in it."

"He's one of ours."

"He knew the risks then. Do you know what kind of morale boost this would be to the Soviets? Forget the Bay of Pigs; this would be the biggest goatfuck in American history."

Of course, Jack knew all this. Fingers bit into the sheets, leaving knuckles bloodless and shaking. "And we're going to throw him to the wolves," he continued, ignoring the points Adam had mentioned.

"We can't strain relations with Israel. If we lose our only ally in the Middle East things will only escalate. They're all that keeps some of the terrorist cells from activating and our troops need the training that they're experienced in. Unless you think you're good enough to teach them how to identify an eight year old suicide bomber."

"Damn it." The distinct noise of peeling tape redirected his frustration. He twisted, frowning as he noted Adam's wrinkled nose and rust colored bandages. "Don't touch those."

Immediately, Adam began to press the filthy gauze back onto the wound. With a wince, Jack rose to get the first aid kit from the bathroom, ordering Adam not to touch anything. The shrill noise of the phone died halfway through the first ring.

"Of course, sir," the younger man was mumbling into the phone. Rolling his eyes, Jack sat on the edge of the bed nearer Adam, and opened the small kit. It was ill stocked, but he'd gotten good at improvising over the years.

"What did it-ah- say?" Once the old bandage had been roughly pulled from the other's skin, Jack tossed it to the floor behind him, reminding himself not to smirk. There was a brief though to what disinfectant hurt the most, before he plucked up the alcohol out of habit. Using spare gauze, he dabbed it on the wound. Adam hissed into the phone, cheeks staining at whatever the reply from the other end was.

"No, you idiot." There was a snort as Adam attempted to shove Jack away. It felt more like he was shoving at a brick wall. "There's a time difference, we haven't-- Nine thirty. Yes, sir."

Biting off a piece of medical tape, Jack pressed the gauze firmly against the graze. Only a little satisfaction was drawn from the trembling of Adam's muscles under his hand. Adam still needed to see a real doctor for antibiotics. Jack would force him when they returned home. It was a thought that made him feel weary and pleased at once. The phone was pressed to Jack's ear without warning, Roy's voice loud and chipper.

"Hey, there big boss man." Grinning despite himself, Jack retorted with his own greeting. "We got the message decoded. You remember any pretty blonde agents from about a year back?"

"Huh?" The last blonde female he'd been around was Lee and it hadn't been pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. He head ached dully at the memory.

"Let me put it this way," there was a pause before Roy - with his best breathy, seductive female impersonation - sang gently, _"Happy Birthday, Mr. President...Happy Birthday...to you."_

Jack wasn't sure what expression was currently painted onto his face, but it earned him an odd look from his companion. Letting out a slow breath through his nose, Jack said, "You're lying."

Amused, forced laughter echoed in his ear. It wasn't a joke then. "This is too good to lie about. Fill in Ocelot; we need you boys to clean house down there."

"Right." The phone was placed back in the cradle without further aplomb. Adam was near the window, curtains pushed back enough to allow a bar of light. He was buttoning up his shirt, stealing glances at Jack as he did so. Sighing, Jack rose to his own feet and headed toward the bathroom. Adam trailed after him, watching from the door-frame as Jack stepped into the shower.

"What did he say?" The voice seemed an octave too high, nervous under a layer of forced calm. Though Jack might have been wrong, maybe it was just the water rushing by his ears.

"They decoded the message." The blur of color that was Adam moved from the door-frame to stand near the sink, leaning back against the counter.

When it became clear Jack wasn't continuing, Adam prompted, "And?"

"Do you remember Marilyn Monroe?"

"You're kidding," Adam deadpanned. "I thought she died. Of a drug overdose, it was all over the papers."

"She pulled out. We were closing in on her and she faked it."

"Actress. Lover of the president." There was a curt laugh. "That's a prime information gathering cover."

Jack hummed, ignoring the sting of shampoo in his eye. Turning off the shower, he pulled back the curtain in time for a large white towel to land on his head. Adam exited the room, but Jack could still hear him moving about. Neither bothered to shut the bathroom door as Jack dried himself off

* * *

The Dallas Police Department wasn't anything near a fortress, but the security around it was noticeably tighter than it had been in years. Nervous officers with shifty eyes littered the hall, all casting suspicious glances at the two agents in suits as they made their way to the holding cell Oswald occupied. He was seated on the bed, pulling loose strings from the soiled mattress, feet bouncing nervously. The cell itself wasn't anything special, merely bars and concrete. Oswald could have just been another drunk driver, a wife beater, a car thief. Anything but the man accused of killing the leader of a nation.

The footsteps of the police escort faded, the slamming of a door resounded the ending. Oswald didn't look up, but he tipped his head as if to listen better.

"You set me up," he accused quietly.

"We can get you out of this, but we need your cooperation."

Oswald bobbed his head one, twice, and then slowly looked up. His gaze froze on Adam, anger evident in his stony glare. "You," the man hissed, jumping to his feet. "What is he doing here?"

Keeping the confusion from his face, Jack looked between the two, not understanding what had just happened. Finally, he turned to Oswald.

"What?"

"He's a Ruskie!" Oswald informed, gripping a bar with one hand and jabbing the other through to point an accusatory finger at Adam. "He's Russian! Look into my file; I did a Russian campaign for the CIA. He's a major for the GRU."

A flicker of recognition flitted across Adam's blue eyes, but he ignored the venom and picked up where Jack had left off. "You'll need to take the fall--"

"I'm not playing patsy to the Kremlin! You have to believe me, he's Russian!"

Jack blinked, realizing the situation was quickly spiraling beyond what he could control. Adam seemed to be studying the man with indifference, Oswald moved away from the bars to pace alongside them like a feral creature. Occasionally he'd glance up, lip curled and teeth bared, before looking back down at his feet.

"What do you know about what happened, Oswald?" inquired the blond.

There was an ineffectual motion of anger, a sharp gesture with his hands before Oswald threw them into the arm. "It was the Mossad. The Israelis set this up. And as soon as I get out of here--"

Adam bit down on a snarl of his own. "You're to keep that to yourself, agent--"

"--I'm going to tell the whole world! Because I refuse to play scapegoat to some--"

"--You do not understand the situation and therefore--"

"--dirty, Russian, backstabbing whore!"

"--will follow orders unquestioningly."

The echoes of the shouting match slowly died down, leaving only a strained quiet in its wake. Ripples on the surface that didn't reveal the extent of the turmoil below. Oswald had both hands gripping the bars to the door, knuckles white and breath ragged. Adam appeared slightly winded as well, fists clenched tightly at his side. Jack placed a hand on his shoulder and steered the younger man away from the cell.

"We can't risk telling him anything," Adam snapped before Jack could begin to speak. Not fond of the course they had to take, he nodded goodbye to Oswald before informing the man that they'd be in touch. Jack didn't look back as they left, unwilling to look the ally they'd doomed in the eye.

* * *

The hotel room hadn't been dark when she'd left it. She also hadn't left the door unlocked.

Apprehensive, she stepped into the room and pushed the door shut behind her. It had barely closed before a gun was pressed firmly against her upper back. She held up her hands in surrender and moved a step forward. The pressure of the gun didn't lessen. The other didn't speak, but she heard the locks falling into place and licked her lips. The lipstick was bitter against her tongue.

"Nothing to say? Or does this mean you like me?"

The gun cocked.

"I'm afraid I've never been a big fan, Miss Monroe."

She laughed, genuinely amused, clapping her hands together. "My, they certainly train you boys well." Ignoring the danger of the gun, she stepped forward and then spun around so she was able to face her captor. He seemed unimpressed with her daring. Marilyn flashed him a movie star smile, all teeth. "And handsome as well. You don't have any friends with you?"

"I hunt alone," he informed with a crooked smile, teeth bright against the shadows.

Marilyn pulled off her glasses, tugging the headscarf off soon after. She ran a hand over her brown hair and tossed both items to the freshly made bed.

"Well I hope I didn't keep you waiting long."

"I'm patient when I need to be."

She gave a gentle smile. Alluring and deadly, it drew men in to break them. Ocelot stayed his distance and her grin widened.

"Where are Frank and Lee?"

"I don't think you understand what serpent's nest your playing in."

Making a soft 'tsk' noise, she turned her back to Ocelot, unafraid as she seated herself near the window. Drawing a silver cigarette case from her pockets, she placed one between her lips before snapping it closed.

"I know more than you think."

"If you have youth and wisdom, why bother living past thirty?" She eyed his once skeptically before lighting her cigarette. A ring of smoke floated slowly upward as she took another drag. "Or twenty-five in your case. Do you even shave? It'd be hard to imagine, with a face like yours."

Ocelot moved closer, shoes heavy against the carpet.

"Baby-faced killers. What is this world coming to?"

He still didn't answer. She frowned.

"Can I at least know your name? If you're going to kill me, I want to know. You never know what you'll need to know in the afterlife."

The gun was leveled to her back, aimed at her heart. The last year she'd spent on borrowed time seemed to be wasted now. All those years, all those mistakes. It was like watching rain drops, never fast enough to dwell on any specifically, just quick enough to dwell on the torrent that fell before her eyes. As she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the rain against her skin. Heated drops fell against her cheeks to hide the tears as she smiled at the dark sky.

"You know, when I was a girl--" And the thunder rolled, registering far after the lightning struck. Marilyn's frame jerked as if shocked, then slowly succumbed to gravity and slumped backward, plummeting to the ground.

Holstering his gun, Ocelot grabbed the key off the dresser. The door was locked behind him, a "Do Not Disturb" sign swayed from the knob as he made a leisurely retreat.

* * *

It was late afternoon, the sun beating down with little concern to the creatures below. The Trinity River glowed, reflecting the mercurial light that caressed the water. Sparse patches of blue shone in between the gold.

Two figures stood side by side on the bridge hovering over the river, resting against the railing that kept them from plummeting like rocks to the depths below. They stood strong against the wind, watching it toy with the river's surface.

"You found me," Frank said. He moved slowly, stiffly as braced his arms against the railing. Jack shoved his hands into his pocket, immobile.

Frank gave a mordacious smile. "I'm glad." Penitence wasn't something he needed now. He wasn't contrite, merely lost somewhere on his road to perdition. Without words, Jack understood. Orders were never about morality.

"You were Mossad the entire time."

The wind picked up and Frank leaned into its touch. "I was."

"I let you around my son."

Frank's recollection of such was quite clear. A touch of sentimentality touched his eyes, but he blamed the wind. "David's a wonderful boy. He'll be a handful when he gets older. I hear they fight against their fathers every step of the way."

"He won't," Jack protested weakly.

"He might." Frank's fingers tightened on the railing, the pulse strong and steady. "How's Adam?"

"Fine."

The knowing in Frank's eyes left Jack feeling cold from the inside out. He gulped.

"I'm glad."

"Frank…where's Lee?"

Teeth made it into the baleful grin Frank shot at the sky. "Her name was Kazhin. She told me it means 'Life.'" Tears glistened in his eyes, but Jack pretended not to see. There was nothing he hated more than watching a soldier break down. "I'm glad love worked out for one of us."

"You killed her?"

A noiseless sob shook Frank's shoulder. He nodded once, clenching his jaw to bite back tears. "She wanted us to run away from this," he choked out. "Told me everything, she's been supplying Iraq with Mossad intelligence."

Jack couldn't quite bring himself to place his hand on Frank's shoulder. It fell back to his side as the older man moved to stand closer. Their shoulders were only a couple inches apart, but it was all the comfort Jack could afford to give.

"Kazhin. That was her curse to me." Wincing at the quiet sniffle, Jack looked down to his side, fingering the gun he held shoved in his pocket. "I know what to call my demons now."

"What am I supposed to tell David?"

"Whatever you want."

Cars continued to pass them without notice, the traffic light considering the time of day. "I could let you go. Say I didn't find you."

Sorrow kindled fury, unrepentant rage that was thick in the air. The quavering of Frank's form could be felt.

"Don't, Jack. Don't make this meaningless," Frank sibilated. The words were quiet, barely coiled energy waiting for a trigger. Suddenly, Frank slammed his fists against the concrete barrier with alarming force. "Don't," he yelled, "mock me!"

"Okay."

The anger drained away, leaving Frank with his elbow against the railing, hands firmly pressed against his face.

"Thank you," came the muffled response. The traffic seemed to have thinned to nothing. The gun was pulled from Jack's pocket. He denied how it shook as he pressed it against Frank's temple. "I'm glad it was you."

The gunshot was the single most deafening thing Jack could recall. Putting the gun in his pocket, he tugged up Frank's bloodied form and heaved it over the edge of the bridge. Distantly, he heard the splash of water and then sound slowly began to filter back. Ripping off his gloves, Jack tossed them in after before turning to leave. He halted after only a few steps to watch the body bob in the current.

Just for an instant, Jack hated his country.

* * *

Adam was waiting when Jack returned to the hotel room. He grinned so wide that Jack could almost see the canary feathers around his mouth. Hunting had been good then. Despite wanting to be relieved their mission was over, Jack didn't feel anything but drained and cold.

Latching onto Adam, Jack dragged him toward the bed. It earned an enthusiastic response. Adam shoved him against the bed, which must have been made while they were out, nudging Jack's chin upward so he could have better access to the man's neck. Adam's hands made short work of unbuttoning his shirt and were brushing along his side before he could protest.

"Adam."

The younger man hummed against his throat. Placing his hands on the other's shoulders, Jack held him at arms length. Sighing, he tossed Adam down beside him and rolled onto him, his ear places above Adam's heart.

"Just stop."

Adam tried to wriggle free, but failed to so much as get his arms from the death grip Jack had. So he huffed, staring up at the ceiling.

"Don't get sappy on me, Jack." But he didn't seem to move, so Jack didn't think he was that bothered by it. The beat of Adam's heart was soothing. It meant he was there and alive, if harmed. Unlike Frank. The chill that had settled in his bones refused to budge. The cold was far too reminiscent of cold river waves.

"The brat called." The words reverberated in Adam's chest, but Jack didn't pick up his head. "From Campbell's phone, I could hear the idiot in the background. You might want to keep him away from Campbell if you don't want him to be the next super soldier you."

Jack made a noise solely to show he was still listening, even if his eyes had slid shut and he was fighting the pull of sleep. It wasn't that late in the day, but with all the running around he'd had to do merely to keep up with Adam, it had been tiring. His last task hadn't helped, nor had the lack of sleep the night prior.

"Keep talking," he mumbled when he noted the soft rumble against his ear had ceased. Adam complied, though Jack couldn't recall what he'd spoken of. Simply that Adam had droned on until Jack was no longer among the world of the living.

There were dreams he wouldn't recall later. Things of monsters and death, red splashed vividly against its grayscale backdrop. Cold hands and dilated eyes that wouldn't stop staring slowly morphed into something not so broken. Moribund bodies rose with jubilant smiles. Grins and laughter, blue eyes and warm, dark rooms.

When he awoke, Adam was across the room, arms folded as he leaned against the window. The harsh light gave way to how near it was to sunset. Adam gave him a cursory glance before he returned to surveying the city, vigilant.

"Sleep well?"

Rolling onto his side, Jack flashed him a grin. "Wonderful." He certainly felt better than when he'd gone to sleep.

Licking his lips, Adam began, "I'm out."

"Hm?" Running a hand over his mussed hair, Jack raised a brow. His mind was too sleep-addled to process the jump in conversation.

"You asked me how many lives I had left. I'm out."

"What?"

Adam's jaw set, the muscles in his neck becoming more defined. "Just thought you should know."

Something clicked in Jack's mind as his stomach clenched. "Why?" he pressed.

Adam shrugged. "We need to be at the airport in an hour. We're getting out of here."

Jack could feel happiness slide through his fingers like water. He'd never been meant to hold it, he'd never been meant to keep it. Frank had been wrong about that much. Love never worked out for soldiers. Jack left his dreams of a somewhat normal family scattered on the floor of a cheap Dallas hotel.

* * *

David bounced quietly beside Roy, holding tight onto the older man's hand. The stars were dim in the murky sky; the lights of the runway were brighter than anything in the sky. They'd been waiting for ten minutes in the night air, content to abandon the comfort of the officer's lounge.

The child didn't know what to make of the confusing air force base, but Roy had had no trouble navigating it, even in the dark. It made David feel a bit better.

"That's your dad's plane," Roy informed, pointing out the fast approaching collection of lights. Anticipation thrummed through David's veins as they grew stronger. He'd missed his father, despite the fun he'd had at Hal's, it just wasn't the same. Hal's dad didn't wrestle with them; he didn't even watch movies with them like Adam would. Adam was returning too, and even if he didn't want to admit it, David was happy for that as well.

"I'm gonna kick Adam's butt with that new move you taught me!"

Roy smiled, but it looked strained, tight around his eyes. David frowned, brows drawing together in worry.

"I'm sure he'll like that," Roy assured, but it sounded off. Getting jumpier by the minute, David watched with wide eyes as the small plane landed. The ground crew rushed out when it came to a stop and proceeded to do whatever it was David supposed they were paid for. He couldn't make out all their actions, even with the flood lights on, and he couldn't identity half of what he did see.

The door to the plane opened and his father jumped out, saluting and nodding to the other men. David strained his neck, but he didn't catch sight of Adam. Roy held his hand tighter in an attempt to keep the boy in place. He didn't succeed.

David sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him. By the time he reached Jack, the man had bent down to pick up the child and swung him around before pulling him into a hug.

"You took a long time." Small arms wrapped tightly around Jack's neck as David buried his face in Jack's shoulder.

"I know, things got a little crazy."

Pulling back slightly, David looked around. His new vantage point didn't offer any new insight, however. Frowning, worry began to snake through David's gut. He looked at his father.

"Where's Adam?"

The older man gave a watery grin. The same grin that reminded David of shouting and divorce papers, of hiding under the covers and ignoring his brother's soft crying. The panic solidified in his stomach and David felt ill.

His voice pitched a bit higher. "Where's Adam?"

Jack's arm pulled him into a strong hug, crushing the small boy to his much larger frame. David tucked his head under Jack's chin and gripped the lapels of a rumpled jacket.

"Dad?" Scared didn't begin to cover it.

"He's going to be gone for a while. For work."

"Well will he be back?"

The arms tightened around him before Jack was setting David back on his feet. "Not soon enough."

He ruffled David's hair before offering his hand. David took it, giving the plane a glare. They walked back toward Roy, David watching as the adults exchanged greetings. He looked away, rubbing at his eyes to try and stave off tears.

It wasn't the same, but it felt a lot like his family had fallen apart all over again.


End file.
